JOHN CREASEY
The Toff and the Fallen Angels
Copyright Note
This e-book was created by papachanjo, with the purpose of providing a digitized format of the books written by John Creasey without the least intention of commercial gain of any sort. This e-book should hence be utilized for reading only and if you like it and can buy it, please do to support the publishers.
This book was scanned by a friend in America along with others.
I am trying to create at least an ample collection of all the John Creasey books which are in the excess of 500 novels. Having read and possess just a meager 10 of his books does not qualify me to be a fan but the 10 I read were enough for me to rake up some effort to scan and create these e-books.
If you happen to have any John Creasey book and would like to add to the free online collection which I’m hoping to bring together, you can do the following:
Scan the book in greyscale
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from back cover
There was a sudden click from the porch, as of a door being opened. The man seemed to square his shoulders, and to raise his right arm. Now at last Rollison could see that he carried something heavy, it looked like a bricklayer’s hammer with its massive steel head.
The door opened; brighter light shone but did not fall upon the waiting man. Rollison placed a hand on the wall, ready to vault over, quite sure that he could forestall any attack. He saw the shadow of a woman thrown by the light in the hall, then heard the door slam and the light was dim again.
Naomi Smith stepped from the porch on to the path.
The waiting man raised the weapon in his hand, and leapt forward.
And as he leapt and as Naomi cried out in alarm, the Toff vaulted over the wall and called in a sharp voice of command:
“Keep still! Don’t move!”
Table of Contents
Copyright Note
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
CHAPTER 1
Home Truths For The Toff
IT was a day when the Honourable Richard Rollison, known to so many as the Toff, was happy and content. Contemplating this state of near-euphoria as he sat in a comfortable armchair and looked idly at his Trophy Wall, he was puzzled. He had no right, he felt, to be as happy as he was; nor had he any special reason.
And yet he was in a mood when his heart was positively buoyant.
The world was in its constant state of fear and threat of bomb-blast, and the politicians who called themselves statesmen appeared no less impotent, and no nearer the use of reason.
The nation was in its constant state of tightening its belt and grinning, whatever new privation was thrust upon it.
The youth of the nation was under the usual, periodic charge of irresponsibility, the more mature critics virtuously recalling their own young days, which time and nostalgia appeared to have set in a permanent state of industry and innocence.
Taxation, especially for the Toff, who after some lean years was once again a man of major substance, was very heavy.
Yet he survived.
And the world survived.
And in Britain, most people lived reasonably well; the super-markets were full, the betting shops were busy and the football fans were about to put away their rattles, their team-colours, their scarves and their woollen hats, for this was the merry month of May.
Spring.
Suddenly Rollison laughed—a low-pitched chuckle of sound reflecting his good humour.
“And it isn’t even love !” he murmured.
As he spoke, the door which led from the domestic quarters of his flat in London’s Mayfair, opened, and Rollison’s man-of-all-work appeared. His name was Jolly. He had served the Toff for so long that he had reached the stage of being more counsellor and friend than servant. There were some who regarded a gentleman’s gentleman in this age of pop and do-it-yourself as an anachronism—as conceivably Jolly was. Indeed, he looked it, a man of medium height and doleful countenance, his sagging jowl hung in dignified abandon over a winged collar and a grey cravat. For the rest, he was dressed with impeccable restraint in a black jacket and striped trousers.
He carried coffee on a silver tray.
“Did you say something, sir?” he asked, putting the tray down on a low table near the chair.
“I said,” said Rollison, “that I am happily out of love, and completely fancy free.”
“If I might say so, a pointer, sir,” remarked Jolly.
“Oh, is it?” Rollison looked surprised. “And to what does it point?”
“It suggests the oncoming of—er—of—er—” Jolly, for once, was suddenly embarrassed and with remarkable presence of mind he moved back. “I think I hear someone knocking, sir. Will you excuse me.” Swift and silent, he reached the door.
“Dolly,” called Rollison sternly.
“Sir?”
“There is no-one knocking. You were going to say that my mood of contentment suggested the final oncoming of maturity, were you not?”
Jolly looked at him judicially. “Well, sir, it is to be expected.”
“Do I look my age?” demanded Rollison.
“But you are not old, sir!”
“That is a contradiction,” stated Rollison.
“In no way, sir. When I suggested that your—ah-maturer years made it possible for you to be content without any—ah—romantic interludes, I did not mean that you were—ah—”
“Incapable,” said Rollison drily. “Or even impotent.”
“Indeed no, sir!”
“Jolly.”
“Sir.”
“Since you are in a mood to be devastatingly honest and I am in a mood to listen, tell me this : am I less attractive to women than I was? Or are women less attractive to me?”
Jolly hesitated, considered, then moved forward to pour out the coffee. As he handed a cup to Rollison he spoke again, as one stepping on very delicate ground. “I think the truth is, sir, that you are more selective than in times past.”
“Ah. More choosey, you mean.”
“That is a more colloquial way of putting it, sir.”
“Yes, I suppose so. I had imagined that I had always been reasonably selective.”
“As indeed you have, sir,” said Jolly, earnestly. “I am not expressing myself at all well this morning. What I mean is—” again he hesitated, and actually glanced upward as if hoping desperately for a celestial interruption. “What I mean is—”
“What do you mean?” demanded Rollison, obviously not disposed to let his man off the hook. His expression was one of mild amusement, and his well-shaped lips were sardonically curved. He was handsome, with dark hair showing only a few flecks of grey; dark, well-marked eyebrows, dark eyelashes which threw the brilliance of his grey eyes into impressive relief. He was sitting back, relaxed, without a spare ounce of flesh, and obviously as fit as a fiiddle. The tan of a brief holiday in the Swiss Alps still bronzed his face. He looked as if, when standing, he would be both tall and lean; as in fact, he was.
“What I mean, sir,” went on Jolly with great precision, “is that you have always demanded beauty and a quick wit, but recently you have not found these alone as satisfying as they once were.”