Here Comes the Toff

by John Creasey

Rollison drew a deep, slow breath.

  Anthea said: “Rolly, what is it?”

  “What is …?” he broke off, and she knew that, for seconds past, he had not been aware of her presence. “A bit out of the past, Anthea.”

  “Not a pleasant bit?”

  “No. I …” he smiled, and again he lifted a finger for the waiter. “Did you see the woman in black?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “She is striking,” admitted the Toff. “A very lovely lovely, is our Irma. Named Cardew, too, although I doubt if she admits it. Does Irma Cardew mean anything to you?”

  Anthea stared. “No.”

  “The price of youth,” said Rollison. “Three years ago she was acquitted of murder. She should not have been. Because where Irma goes there’s trouble; often death, and certainly crime. I wonder who her victim is?”

  “Victim?”

  “The grey-head,” said the Toff, and he was not smiling. “Rich and ready for the plucking, I fancy. Anthea, my precious, I’m going to take you home. If tomorrow is our day, tonight is mine, and I’ve found some work to do.”

  Chapter Two

  Of Italian Art and Other Things

  Had the Toff had his way, he would have gone from the Embassy without being noticed by the woman in the black gown. Nine people out of ten, with the same object in view, would have elected to leave via any one of the three emergency exits; but the Toff worked on the assumption that the woman called Irma would notice, in any case, that he had gone – and that she would guess he proposed to follow her.

  He used the main doors, and waited for a moment or two in the foyer for Anthea to get her cloak. He was surprised that she kept him for so short a time, and looked down at her five feet two with a thoughtful expression.

  “Have you discovered you’re in a hurry?”

  “Yes—because you won’t want to waste time,” said Anthea, and she seemed more serious – and unwittingly younger – than she had all the evening, except for that brief spell of disappointment when the Toff had misled her by introducing the quality of Scotland as a walking country.

  “Very nicely thought,” said Rollison, and his appreciation was sincere. “We’ll be at your place in ten minutes.”

  “Are you going to follow her?” This as they squeezed through the same partition of the revolving doors to the street outside.

  “I might even do that.”

  “Then just put me into a taxi.”

  “My dear girl …”

  “Please, I don’t want to crab you,” said Anthea, and there was such obvious entreaty in her voice that the Toff shrugged and smiled, and pressed her arm.

  “You’re a nice child,” he said.

  “The only thing I won’t forgive you is if you let me down tomorrow,” she said quickly. “It’s my last chance, remember.”

  “Tomorrow it shall be.” He handed her into a cab, and told the driver to take her to Chamley Mansions, which were in Park Lane, and where her parents – who were excessively rich, a remarkable thing for a peer and peeress – had a flat. His last sight of her was as she leaned forward to look at him through the window, a street lamp shining on the diamond clip in her hair.

  He waved – and turned towards Piccadilly.

  Close by the Embassy, which he could watch from it, was a telephone kiosk. He slipped in, and dialled a Mayfair number.

  After a short pause a deferential voice answered, a voice which could often be expressive, and which belonged to Jolly.

  “Jolly …”

  “Sir.”

  “Irma Cardew is back in London,” announced the Toff, and he paused long enough for the information to sink in. Jolly’s response was gratifying, because it consisted of utter silence. The Toff went on, casually to all appearances, and yet inwardly more concerned than he had admitted to Anthea. “She is at the Embassy, so get here quickly. If I’m not about, you will know that I’ve gone after her, but if I’m still here, you will follow. Having followed, you will wait until her companion either goes off alone, or goes into her flat—it will probably be a flat—with her. Is that clear?”

  “Perfectly, sir. Three minutes, sir.”

  “Make it two,” said the Toff, who usually invited impossibilities.

  With characteristic thoroughness Jolly arrived in precisely three minutes, passing the Toff without acknowledging him. He thereby demonstrated his alertness, for as he passed, Irma and her companion came down the steps of the Embassy, and a commissionaire called a cab for them.

  Jolly also secured one, twenty yards farther along the road. The Toff followed suit, and the three cabs moved off one after the other. Rollison wondered whether Irma would try to dodge him, and also wondered – with sardonic amusement – what reason she had advanced to her companion for this sudden departure.

  He instructed his driver to follow Irma’s cab.

  It was not easy at night, and he was not sure of getting through. His doubts were vindicated, and Anthea would have been disappointed at what looked like a set-back. For at the first traffic lights in Piccadilly Irma’s cabby made a quick burst of speed, and the Toff, with Jolly behind him, was held up.

  The Toff kept on the road for three minutes, but saw no further signs of the cab and the woman he badly wanted to follow. He did not complain, even to himself, for he considered such indulgences a waste of time. He stopped his cab and climbed out, paying the man off as Jolly’s cab drew up. The Toff joined his servant, and in silence they were driven back to the Toff’s Gresham Terrace flat.

  It was a remarkable flat in one way.

  Except for the living-room, it was ordinary enough. Even that, but for one wall, was comfortable but not excessively so, suggesting good taste without ostentation. The exception, however, showed one of those bizarre and always unpredictable tendencies of the Toff.

  It was covered – almost literally – with an assortment of weapons, and, as he liked to term them, trophies of the chase. There were knives by the dozen, and automatics, even old service revolvers, and three distinct kinds of pistols small enough to be held in the palm of the hand. There were blackjacks, small, shiny, leather-covered, and narrow bags containing lead shot, which induced unconsciousness with a minimum of injury in anyone they struck. There were sandbags, there were swords, there were daggers and krisses, there were ropes and cords, there were scarves – several of them brown-stained with dried blood – and there was even a small glass case, standing on brackets, which contained phials and bottles which were the actual containers of poisons which had been used in cases that had attracted the Toff’s attention.

  In London – both the East and the West Ends – there was much talk of the Toff’s armoury, and of his Trophy Wall which was almost as legendary as the Toff himself. It amused him, he said, and it also caused Jolly much bother, for there were times when the Toff wanted to display a “piece” which Jolly considered was too large or else in excessive bad taste. Jolly usually had his way – although on occasions a particularly unattractive souvenir adorned the wall or the floor just beneath it for longer than he liked.

  Into this room went the Toff and Jolly, who immediately stepped to a cocktail cabinet.

  “Weak or strong, sir?”

  “Neither,” said the Toff, who had a reputation for drinking which was not wholly deserved. “I’ve had enough for the time being, Jolly, and the shock passed some time ago. Had you no idea that Irma was in London?”

  “None at all, sir,” said Jolly reproachfully. “I would have informed you immediately.”

  “Ye-es. Although I wouldn’t put it past you to try to keep something up your sleeve. But I will overlook it this time! She is. She saw me. She wished she hadn’t. She had a man with her.”

  “A young man, sir?” Jolly sounded almost deprecating as he broke a silence that had lingered for thirty seconds.


  “Certainly not young, Jolly. It’s no case of joie de vivre, or fun and games. Nor do I believe that Irma will ever sink to being kept by an octogenarian.”

  “It is hardly likely, sir.” Jolly, standing at ease by the cocktail cabinet, and with the fingers and thumb of one hand pressed on the top, looked slight and grey and miserable. He had a face which most would have called nondescript, for he was rarely noticeable in a crowd. Nor were the features particularly good, being somewhat sharp, with the eyes deep-set and yet wide apart. “The man was over fifty, then, sir?”

  The Toff looked at him sharply.

  “I don’t feel funny, Jolly. Irma back in London is the last thing I expected, and she’s hooking the fellow for a certainty. As we can’t find her at short notice, we’ll have to try to find him. I’ve seen him about, but I can’t place him.”

  “At a club, sir?”

  “Quite likely at a club,” admitted the Toff, and scowled. “Which means that I shall have to do a club-crawl tomorrow, Jolly, or—oh, damn!”

  “Yes, sir?” Jolly was inquisitive.

  “I’m busy tomorrow,” said the Toff very thoughtfully, and he drew his forefinger along his nose, a trick he had, and of which he was unconscious. “I can’t put the appointment off, that’s certain. Irma will have to sweat for twenty-four hours.”

  “Quite likely she will, sir,” murmured Jolly.

  The Toff’s eyes gleamed.

  “I hope you’re right! On the other hand, she appeared to be as calm as ever, and she got away from us nicely tonight. Too nicely. The boy friend, of course, could be involved in whatever racket she’s playing, but I doubt that.”

  “You’re sure there is a racket, sir?”

  “I’ve told you,” said the Toff, with dignity, “that Irma is in London. Irma would not be in London without some fell purpose. I—Jolly! A moment, Jolly, a single moment!”

  He lifted a hand as if enjoining silence, and fingered the bridge of his nose, so obviously deep in thought that Jolly knew he had recalled where he had seen Irma Cardew’s companion.

  “Pictures,” said the Toff, almost dreamily. “Paintings. Art. Art galleries. Italian paintings. A show of Italian art, Renaissance period, at the Balliol Gallery, Bruton Street. The name of one of the contributors, Jolly, one of the gentlemen who lent the pictures—Jolly, a catalogue of that show! In a hurry, if you please.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Jolly. “It’s in your room, sir.”

  It happened that the Toff had at one time been more than friendly with the Contessa Grinaldi, who – being Italian – had, of course, demanded to see the display of Italian art. The Contessa, who would have found it difficult to differentiate between a Picasso and an Annigoni, had voted herself delighted, and the catalogue would always remain one of her most treasured possessions. She had, of course, left it in the Toff’s flat after her third and last visit, and Jolly – as was his habit – had stored it safely away. He brought it to the Toff.

  There were a dozen pages devoted to the patrons of the Exhibition, and the fifth at which the Toff looked showed him a likeness of the man who had been with Irma Cardew. A likeness, that was, of a sort. The man seemed little more than fifty, and appeared more upright than the one he had seen that night. This suggested that the photograph was an old one, and touched up considerably, but it was enough for identification.

  “Renway,” said the Toff slowly. “Mr. Paul Renway, Jolly, whose kindness in supporting the exhibition is herein duly and suitably acknowledged. He owns …”

  Rollison stopped talking aloud, to read a long paragraph on the pictures which Renway owned, and which he kept in his London house. Disobligingly, the catalogue failed to give the address of that residence.

  “But,” said the Toff, putting the catalogue aside, “we’re not going to worry about that, being owners of a telephone directory. You look up his address, Jolly, and go there quickly. Wait for an hour, or even two. If Irma comes out, follow her. If she doesn’t, make what inquiries you can and if you can – but do nothing to arouse suspicions. Mr. Renway is a man with a reputation, and we should hate to spoil it.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “While I,” said the Toff, “will make myself pleasant at the Carlton Club. Waterer is a member there, and he haunts the place at night. He also owns Italian pictures, and he will doubtless give me the details of Renway’s collection, with many a hint on the dishonesty of his methods of obtaining Masters which he, Waterer, would gladly steal. A troubled world, Jolly, and – what are you waiting for?”

  “For you to finish, sir,” said Jolly. He bowed and slipped out as the Toff sat back in an easy chair to consider the situation.

  Nothing that occurred to him suggested that his estimate of Irma Cardew’s return to London was erroneous. He remained surprised, for he had not thought it likely that she would show herself again for many years. The jury had acquitted her on the direction of a judge who had died soon afterwards. Although the Toff had wished the judge no harm, he was glad that, when Irma came up for trial again – as he believed she would – the same gentleman would not be in a position to help her escape.

  For undoubtedly Irma had been guilty.

  The police, including that gentleman who at once liked and detested the Toff – Chief Inspector McNab, to wit – knew all about Irma, knew that she had more than one murder to her discredit, and were aware of the most remarkable fact about her. She was that English rarity, a female gangster. The police and Rollison agreed on one point about her. The female of the species was more dangerous than the male.

  Irma could, and would, kill – and even had killed – as remorselessly as any Chicago big-shot, and more readily than any gangster’s moll. She was not a moll in the generally accepted sense of the word; her devotion to her brother, who had been killed in a gun fight with Rollison just before her arrest, had been one of several things to lift her out of the common rut.

  She had a good mind, for another thing.

  There had been times when the Toff had admired her, when he had known that had her moral make-up been different -and he was not thinking of her attitude towards sex – they could have been friends. But she possessed that something which had inspired a famous gentleman to coin the phrase, “an enemy of society.”

  Rollison had expected her to stay out of England.

  He knew that she had left the country immediately after the trial, and his interest in her had been so great that he had gone to the trouble of finding out that for some months she had been in Hamburg, for several more she had stayed in Paris, and then – under various names – she had visited New York, Monte Carlo, Venice, Calcutta and the Cape. It suggested that on the reasonable fortune she had illegally garnered, she was seeing the world and having a good time. As there was nothing he could do to prevent it, the Toff had not complained.

  Now, in London, she was a different proposition.

  It seemed likely that her funds had run low, if they had not run out completely. That was one of the few things that would have brought her back. Another was a collaborator, for he doubted whether Irma would start anything entirely on her own.

  Who, in London, was most likely to work with her?

  Rollison could think of no one, for Master Crooks – he liked the capitals – were rare at all times, and just then, as far as he knew, completely non-existent.

  The five minutes he had allotted for consideration being up, he donned his hat and coat again and went to the Carlton Club. By then it was well past midnight, but he was not surprised to find Sir Matthew Waterer, an old-middle-aged gentleman of considerable wealth, sitting in his favourite corner of the smoking-room, and holding forth – to the annoyance of most of his companions. Waterer was at that moment on his third favourite hobby-horse – the degeneracy of modern youth. It took Rollison five minutes to break in on his conversation – and thus ear
n the silent acclaim of a half circle of unwilling listeners – and another five to corner Waterer, and discuss his first favourite hobby-horse – Art.

  The Toff, a patient man, had eight minutes of Art before he led the conversation to Renway. Immediately he gathered that Waterer disliked Renway, and assumed that Renway’s collection of Italian paintings was superior to Waterer’s. It was. If the latter gentleman was to be believed, however, not a single item of Renway’s collection had been honestly come by. Rollison was silent for some moments in sheer admiration of a man who could so ruthlessly discard all common decency about a fellow-collector, and who held the laws of slander in such obvious contempt. Nevertheless, he had a clear picture of Renway in his mind.

  A rich man – a man of few friends – a man with a nephew likely to inherit most of his fortune. A big-business man who did not know that it was past time he retired. A misogynist – Waterer rolled the word out with obvious enjoyment, and the Toff smiled, as he remembered using it on himself when he had been talking to Anthea – and yet a man who was thinking of getting married. Rumour had it that he was engaged.

  The Toff raised a metaphorical eyebrow.

  Waterer was short, florid, grey-haired, with a veined nose and a thick, rasping voice. He waved his right hand as he talked, and kept the other in his pocket. He fixed the Toff with protuberant, fish-like eyes.

  “Yes, Rollison, at his age. Obscene, I consider it. Marriage is a thing for the young, and …”

  “And who,” asked Rollison gently, “is the lucky lady?”

  “A woman named Curtis, I’m told. Haven’t thought much about it.” Waterer then proceeded to prove that he had made every inquiry possible short of a personal approach to Renway, and further described the lady as no better than a demi-mondaine. He did not use the word, but something far more crude. He admitted – not without a suggestion of lasciviousness – that she was good to look at, and his description of her fitted Irma Cardew.

  Which suggested that Irma was either (a) seriously contemplating marriage, or (b) planning a large-scale fraud on the millionaire. The latter was the more likely.