by John Creasey
Copyright & Information
The Toff and The Great Illusion
First published in 1944
© John Creasey Literary Management Ltd.; House of Stratus 1944-2014
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
0755136519 9780755136513 Print
0755139844 9780755139842 Kindle
0755138198 9780755138197 Epub
0755146190 9780755146192 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
The Talkative Young Lady
“Yes, of course,” said the Hon. Richard Rollison, “yes … really? … Oh, I see … no, I hadn’t … yes … yes …”
Near the sideboard in the small dining-alcove of his Gresham Terrace flat, Jolly, his manservant, was polishing silver and looking towards him in commiseration. The telephone had rung twenty minutes before, and at first Rollison had been loquacious; obviously the charming young lady at the other end of the wire had taken that as a sign that she could gossip indefinitely. Rollison’s responses had become increasingly monosyllabic, and from time to time he glanced desperately about him, for he was interested in nothing that Georgina Scott had to say. He wondered why he had even agreed to speak to her, and considered the possibility of ringing off. If he did that, however, she would doubtless ring through again and give him her opinion of telephones.
“Really!” he exclaimed. “I think …”
But she interrupted, and it was long past the time when he could remind himself that she was a person of considerable charm.
After another five minutes she said: “Oh, and Rolly, I simply must tell you about …”
“’Gina, it’s getting on for six, and I—” began Rollison, only to hear her exclaim as if in horror: “Six! Rolly, you shouldn’t have kept me talking like this; I must be out by half-past. I—”
“Then we’d, better say goodbye,” said Rollison, straightening up.
“Rolly, don’t go! I knew there was something I wanted to tell you about. I’ve just remembered it. It’s absolutely absurd, of course, I know you won’t believe a word of it; but I thought you ought to know. It was yesterday—no, the day before. At the Carlton—wait a minute, it might have been at the Savoy, where did I lunch?—oh, I remember. I was with Teddy; we went to the Savoy and he had forgotten to book a table – the ape – so we had to wait for nearly half an hour, even the Grill was crowded, and we were having an aperitif. It—”
“If you have to be out by half-past six,” said Rollison, “you’ll have to tell me about this another time.”
“No, Rolly. Rolly! You haven’t gone? … oh, I thought they’d cut you off. It’s about you, you see. He didn’t look at all the type, either. Teddy pointed him out to me, because of the funny way he talked – out of one side of his mouth, it made him look positively sinister.”
Rollison felt a kindling of interest.
“Teddy said it’s the prison lisp, or something, and that the man must have been in prison for a long time to talk like that,” rattled Georgina. “He didn’t speak very loudly, but just as we were passing him – there was a free table at last – I heard him mention your name. Wasn’t that remarkable?”
“Yes,” conceded Rollison, cautiously. “What did—?”
“I just can’t remember what he said,” confessed Georgina, “but I know he’d been talking about someone he said he’d like to murder—he wasn’t laughing, either; he looked really evil. Oh, I remember! ‘Another of them is Rollison.’ Those are his actual words. We were both starved, or we would have come to see you or telephoned you at once. Teddy had to catch the 2.15, poor dear, and he made me promise not to forget to tell you, but I’ve been so busy—Rolly! It’s nearly ten past, I must fly!”
“But what did he look—” began Rollison urgently.
“Rolly, I can’t tell you now! I’ll see you some time; of course, there isn’t anything in it, really, but you’ll admit that it was queer. Goodbye!”
“’Gina!” cried Rollison.
He heard the receiver replaced and pictured Georgina, slight and shapely, and given to wearing flimsy dresses which flared about nice legs, rushing away from the telephone. She was always late, and always forgiven because of her looks.
Rollison replaced his receiver and lit a cigarette, eyeing Jolly absently.
“How long was I talking?”
“Over twenty-five minutes, sir,” said Jolly, a doleful man to look at, with a deeply lined face and sad, brown eyes. His thinness made him look taller than his five feet eight. “At least, the call lasted for that time. It was Miss Scott, sir, wasn’t it?”
“Yes,” said Rollison. “She talked all that time about nothing, and then couldn’t wait to tell me what she really rang up to say.”
“It is quite infuriating, sir.”
“It’s more,” said Rollison. “A man with a prison lisp waiting to lunch at the Savoy and naming me amongst others whom he would like to murder. Miss Scott didn’t tell me what he looked like, and even had she tried she would probably have described a man she was sitting next to in the train three weeks ago.” He paused.
“It’s just possible that the man Miss Scott overheard was talking about someone else of the same name,” reflected Jolly, comfortingly.
“It’s even probable,” admitted Rollison. “If it weren’t for the fact that Charmion was released from Dartmoor a fortnight ago, I’d think nothing of it.”
Jolly’s face dropped.
“Charmion!” he exclaimed, and, by losing his composure even so slightly, robbed the name of all its attractiveness. “I had no idea, sir, I thought—”
“You thought that he would be away for another year,” interrupted Rollison. “So did I. Apparently he was quite a hero during an outbreak of fire at Dartmoor, and had an extra year of his sentence remitted. Grice told me last week.”
“It is disturbing, sir” said Jolly. “I think I would rather it were any man but Charmion. I suppose it is possible that Miss Scott saw someone else?”
“The only hint she gave me about his appearance was that he ‘didn’t look the type’,” said Rollison, “and presumably she meant the type who would talk murder. It fits Charmion.”
He stubbed out his cigarette, stepped to the sideboard, and poured himself a whisky and soda.
He was tall, dark and a handsome man. His face was tanned from much tennis and cricket, but the only thought in his mind as he sipped his drink and contemplated Jolly was of Charmion.
He had fought and defeated Charmion more than seven years ago, but the reprieve was not long enough. He had searched the papers for three days after Charmion’s release to see whether there were any mention of it; there had been none. A man whose trial had lasted for fifteen days, and who, until the last moment, had appeared likely to get off scot-free after a series of the most beastly, barefaced, but brilliantly conceived crimes, was no longer worthy of mention.
“How old would he be now, sir?” asked Jolly.
“He was thirty-five then,” said Rollison. “Oh, he’s in his prime.”
A picture of Charmion was in his mind’s eye.
Charmion was not easy to describe, although his face remained clear in Rollison’s memory – a lean, olive-complexioned face with languorous brown eyes, dark hair which fell in waves across his forehead, sensuous lips which curved in a smile so attractive that many of the women had been eager accomplices rather than victims. Charmion had based his defence upon the fact that he had never found it necessary to persuade a single ‘partner’ to subscribe a penny to his fantastic fund; the money had been subscribed willingly – there had even been competition to get on the list.
That had been true enough; only the fact that he had amassed a fortune of a quarter of a million pounds from the foibles of wealthy women and foolish men had made his success noteworthy.
He had declared that he had promised them nothing for their money; and that, also, had been true. He had instituted a cult called the League of Physical Beauty, and it had become a religion to a minority of people whose names had been household words. In efforts to evade all unpleasant publicity some had made it difficult to get the evidence needed to condemn Charmion. He had dabbled in the occult, but not deeply enough to make it a police matter – only just enough to attract and then to fascinate the women who joined him in his ‘crusade.’
One girl, whom Rollison had known well, had joined the League and soon afterwards killed herself. All that was known was that she had become a hopeless drug addict. So Rollison had set himself to prove Charmion’s responsibility, when the police had set themselves to prove that the League was nothing but a money-making swindle. They had succeeded without proving that it was illegal; Rollison had traced the drugs to Charmion and thus brought about his final undoing.
There was, however, much more than that.
There was the indefinable atmosphere in which not only Charmion himself was absorbed but into which he had snared many others; he had that quality which was almost hypnotic, and which had made fifty women whose reputations had been at stake step into the box to defend him. In the dock, Charmion had stood without moving, a faint smile on his lips, the lock of wavy hair over his forehead and just touching his right eye. He had believed that he would triumph. Only towards the end, while the Toff had been working in desperation and when the police were persuaded to use the evidence which he had found, had Charmion faltered.
Rollison remembered how, when he had been in the witness-box, giving evidence which had sent this man to Dartmoor Charmion had stared at him, tight-lipped, his eyes smouldering with a deathless hatred. Rollison had been conscious of it at the time; and the memory of the old tension was very vivid as he finished his drink and lit another cigarette.
“What will you do, sir?” asked Jolly.
“I don’t quite know,” said Rollison. “I’d better see Miss Scott and get her to describe the man. If it were Charmion … he shrugged. “Oh, I don’t think there’s much doubt, he would have nerve enough to go to the Savoy. He’d be prison-cropped, and wouldn’t be easily recognised.” Rollison narrowed his eyes and looked towards the ceiling. “The most significant thing is that he had a confidant at the Savoy. What else has he got, Jolly! Money – that’s reasonably certain, not a tenth of his profits were found. Friends—?” he paused.
“It’s hard to believe, sir,” said Jolly.
“Is it?” asked Rollison. He shrugged his shoulders. “Oh well, it will work itself out. I think I’ll dine at the Club, but I’ll be back before midnight.”
“Very good, sir,” said Jolly.
He was impassive, but Rollison knew that he was deeply concerned.
Rollison felt irritated, almost exasperated, with the half-formed fears in his own mind. Of all the criminals he had met, Charmion had caused him the most anxiety. It was no novelty for Rollison to be threatened with vengeance; he was the butt of such threats at least as frequently as the higher officers of Scotland Yard, and he was no more perturbed than they. There was no real reason why he should regard this threat differently; perhaps he did so because it had been so vague. Knowing Charmion, he could not believe that the man had allowed a careless sentence to be overheard; he did not make mistakes of that nature. It was far more likely he had known that Georgina Scott and her Teddy – it would be Teddy Marchant, well known to be a friend of the Toff ’s – would probably pass on the tit-bit of gossip.
That would be typical of Charmion.
The man would do nothing direct; he would simply allow a rumour to leak, out here, a hint to pass there, making sure that they would reach Rollison. He would remain in the background, with that obscure smile on his red lips, that strange immobility of feature, mocking, disparaging, disdainful – and dangerous.
“This is ridiculous!” said Rollison to himself as he left Gresham Terrace and walked towards Piccadilly. “I’m not—”
He did not use the word ‘frightened’; for he was not frightened, but he was keyed up, and disturbed because so slight an incident had been enough to make him apprehensive and watchful. Had it not been for Georgina Scott, he would not have looked about him to see whether he were being followed, and would not have been suspicious of a middle-aged man who walked behind him the whole way and reaching the Circus a few seconds after him.
Almost against his will he crossed the road to the gates of the Green Park. It was dusk; the evening of a perfect day in early spring shed a subdued light about the traffic and the great gates with their statues reaching towards the darkening sky. The noise of the cars and buses was dulled; the park, stretching out in front of him, had the loveliness of the earth awakened from its winter sleep and preparing to greet the first caressing overtuxes of spring.
Three times he looked over his shoulder; on the last occasion, he did not see the man. He was surprised at the way his heart leapt and his stride lengthened; it was as if major fears had been dissipated. When he reached his Club, in Carlton House Terrace, he was prepared to laugh at himself until, glancing into the park again as an attendant greeted him, he saw the middle-aged man stroll past, bowler-hatted, and with a furled umbrella swinging gently from his arm. The man did not look into the entrance hall, but walked straight past.
“What did you say, sir?” asked the attendant.
“I’ve changed my mind,” said Rollison, with a fleeting smile. “I’m getting forgetful!” He turned and swung out of the Club in the wake of the bowl
er-hatted man.
Chapter Two
The Trials Of A Witness
The man who had caused Rollison so much concern vanished in the evening air. As Rollison did not see him again after leaving the Club, he was more than ever convinced that the trailing had been deliberate.
There was nothing surprising in his decision to dine, not at the Carillon Club, but at Joe’s, in the Mile End Road.
To the casual observer, the contrast between the almost sacrosanct Club and the dilapidated, bomb-blasted East End restaurant was as great as that between Buckingham Palace and the Whitechapel Gallery. Very few people know that there was just one thing in common: the Club and the restaurant each had a French cook. True, the Club’s chef wore a white smock and a tail white hat and had innumerable assistants, while the fat, shiny-faced Frenchwoman who had married Joe Link during the Great War was lucky if she were able to keep a girl to help her with the washing-up. Yet Rollison, no mean judge, considered that Fifi Link was at least as good a cook as the Carillon Club’s chef. Even if she and Joe had to work until midnight, the restaurant, especially the little private room at the back, would be scrupulously clean.
Perhaps because of the black-out, Joe’s was practically empty when Rollison reached it. By then, it was quite dark outside; there were few people about, and little traffic, although buses rambled along the main road and shook the weather-boarding which took the place of windows at the restaurant. A warm, appetising smell greeted Rollison. No one seated on the high-banked benches of the eating-house looked up, although a man standing at the far end, near the serving-hatch, straightened up and stared through the murky yellow light coming from low-wattage, unshaded bulbs.
The man by the hatch, who was large and unwieldy, wearing a green baize apron and smoking a charred pipe, sprang forward. As he did so, he shouted: “Fi!” making it sound like ‘Fee!’ and waddled with unexpected speed towards Rollison, who smiled widely and gripped the moist hand smacked against his own. “Fi!” cried Joe Link again, his beam splitting his fat face in two and revealing perfect dentures.
