The Toff on Fire by John Creasey Read Free Book Online Page B

exchange again. The Supervisor was obviously waiting for him, and when he referred her to Scotland Yard, she said at once: “I don’t think that will be necessary, I’ll just put a note on my report, Mr. Rollison.” So she had been busy, and had identified him. Bless his reputation! “The call came from Guildford 05691, and the name and address of the subscriber is Robertson, Rose Cottage, Horsham Road.”
    â€œYou’re very good,” Rollison said, “thank you very much indeed.”
    She gave a little, self-conscious laugh.
    â€œIt’s a pleasure to help the Toff, sir!”
    Rollison chuckled as he rang off; spontaneous tributes such as that did a great deal for his ego. He went back into the bathroom, doused his face in cold water, then dressed very quickly. He was outside in less than ten minutes, striding along Gresham Terrace to the mews round the corner; there, he kept his car, today a scarlet Bristol. As he was backing it out of the garage, the policeman to whom he had talked earlier passed the end of the mews, and made a point of calling out.
    â€œUp early, sir?”
    â€œCandle at both ends, Jim, it’ll be the death of me,” Rollison said, and waved.
    Dawn was breaking, but it was still quite dark. A few buses, menacing in their speed along the empty roads, were coming in from the suburbs. Small vans and one or two donkey-drawn carts, piled high with fruit and vegetables, were coming away from the city; doubtless from Covent Garden. Cyclists had their coats buttoned high to the neck, and put down their heads as protection against the cutting October wind.
    Rollison drove almost sedately until he had crossed Putney Bridge, where the dawn began to silver both the sky and the river. Then he put on speed. He knew Guildford well, and did not need to ask the way in the cobbled High Street, but turned on to the Horsham Road at once. Then he slowed down. Rose Cottage might be in the centre of the town, or else a mile or two along. He saw a postman cycling, pulled up alongside and asked: “Which direction is Rose Cottage, do you know?”
    â€œStraight along, sir, almost the last house in Guildford, that is—right on the corner, you can’t miss it. The road’s very narrow there, and there’s a halt sign.”
    â€œThat’s fine,” said Rollison. “Thanks.” He drove on, speeding again, but feeling more tired than he had all night; there was a stinging sensation at the back of his eyes. Now, he was inclined to scoff at himself, for this was almost certain to be a wasted journey. Then recollection of the woman’s scared manner and of the sudden silence drove thought of wasted time away. It was about an hour since the woman had telephoned; he could not have come more quickly, and he might conceivably be in time to help.
    He followed a bend in the road, and saw Rose Cottage. He couldn’t mistake the way the road narrowed, or the big warning HALT sign, the white lines on the road. The red brick cottage had probably been there for three hundred years, and nearly every motorist who had to drive past it thought that it ought to have been torn down in the early days of motoring. It was low-roofed, the roof itself was bent and crooked, the red tiles were touched with the green of lichen. Small windows fronted the road, and the front door opened straight on to the road; as dangerous as it could be. There was a wooden gate to a small, hedged garden and a back door. A few yards this side of the cottage was a bay where he could park, and a notice: J. Robertson Builder and Decorator. He pulled the car in and sat for a moment, stiff after the journey and his night without sleep.
    â€œWhat I need now is a cup of strong coffee,” he said aloud. He got out, lit a cigarette, and approached the wooden gate. Near it was a layer of thin, damp dirt – and across this was a tyre track which he recognised on the instant; that of the