The Toff on Fire by John Creasey Read Free Book Online

sound of the receiver being replaced, or being dropped. He held on, no longer speaking, looking at the dial on his telephone and wishing for the days of manual exchanges, when it would have been easy to trace this call.
    A motor horn brayed a clear warning. It must be very close to the telephone at the other end, which placed it as a telephone kiosk call near a road. He heard other sounds, and fancied that one was of someone running.
    The woman spoke again, urgently.
    â€œWhy don’t you answer, is that—”
    â€œThis is the Toff speaking. Who—”
    She cut right across his words.
    â€œListen, mister, look after my baby, please! Make sure he has a good home.” Now, the woman cried. “They’re going to kill me, I’m sure they’re going to—”
    â€œStop a moment!” said the Toff with sudden and sharp vehemence, and so made her break off. “Listen carefully now. Give me your name and tell me exactly where you are.”
    â€œI—I don’t know that I can, I—” there was another pause, another voice in the background. It wasn’t possible to be sure whether the second voice was hostile or friendly; it was just that of a man speaking quickly, using words which Rollison couldn’t distinguish, although he caught: ‘Get a move on.’ Then there was a new sound, the last Rollison wanted to hear just then; the clatter as the receiver was banged down.
    He put his down, slowly.
    The frightened woman might be anywhere in London – anywhere within the London dialling district, and the kiosk might be any one of several thousand. Rollison sat quite still, looking at his reflection without noticing his set expression or, for that matter, his royal blue pyjamas. A frightened woman with a slightly Cockney voice, a desperate mother, a man who had left the baby and the note about the Doc. Add it all up. Add it all up, yes, and look for the thing he hadn’t yet seen, something which was on the edge of his mind, something he had missed. It was that faculty, of being sensitive to factors he knew existed but couldn’t place, which made him what he was.
    Suddenly, he snapped his fingers.
    â€œDidn’t hear her press Button A,” he said, and immediately lifted the receiver, “so it might not have been a dial call.” He dialled ‘O’, asked for the telephone supervisor, and found her helpful and quick.
    â€œâ€¦ yes, that’s right, sir, there was a call to your number from Guildford, about five minutes ago. It will take a few minutes to get further particulars, if you would care to hold on—”
    â€œI won’t hold on,” said Rollison in his friendliest voice, “but if you’ll find out where the call came from, also getting the address if possible, I’ll call you back.”
    â€œIf it’s a private number, sir, I shall not be allowed to disclose any information except the number.”
    â€œThat’s all right,” Rollison said. “I’ll call back in ten minutes.”
    He rang off again, and sat quite still until he stretched out for a cigarette, and lit it slowly.
    He could call Scotland Yard, and be reasonably sure that they would help; but they would also be curious. Did he want the police to be curious, yet? He couldn’t escape from one piece of reasoning; that if the parents of the child had thought that the police could help, they would have called on them. Add it up. A man who could pick locks like this one wasn’t likely to have many friends among or liking for the police, even if the Doc was putting pressure on him. If he had a record, as was probably the case, he would want to keep away from authority – more especially if he was on the run.
    Rollison looked at himself in the mirror, and put his head on one side.
    â€œYou are slipping,” he announced. “Of course they’re on the run, and they hadn’t anywhere to park the baby. Not