Free The Toff on Fire by John Creasey Page A

couldn’t go anywhere without being followed, no one can. Rickett and his wife won’t have a chance.”
    â€œI see. Where is Evie now?”
    â€œI don’t know!”
    â€œWhat about Dan Rickett?”
    â€œHe—he’s trying to get out of the country, I think; I don’t know where he is now, I wasn’t in the Guildford side of it, I just had my orders this morning.”
    â€œFrom the Doc?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWho is the Doc?”
    Something seemed to happen to the big man. He moistened his lips and relaxed, no longer fighting against Rollison’s pressure. There was something like derision in his voice when he answered:
    â€œI don’t know who the Doc is any more than you do! If you think you’ve got a chance against him, you must be crazy.”
    â€œIt takes people different ways,” Rollison murmured. “So you don’t know the Doc. How do you get his orders and how do you report?”
    â€œI can tell you that, but it won’t do you any good,” the man said. “I use a broad who lives in Victoria, Lancing Hotel, Queen Street. But that won’t help you—”
    â€œWhat’s her name?”
    â€œMaggie.”
    â€œMaggie what?”
    â€œJeffson.”
    â€œI’ll have to have a little talk with Maggie soon,” promised Rollison, “she’ll probably want to send some flowers to your funeral. Unless you prefer cremation. If you’re really clever, you can push that door open an inch or two, and lift the firecracker off the wall. That way will be economical, and—”
    All the man’s fear came pouring back.
    â€œNo, don’t try that,” he begged, “don’t try it, if it slips it’ll do for us. I know it will. I’ve told you all I can, give me a break. D’you hear me? Give me a break.”
    â€œAll right,” said Rollison, quietly, “I’ll give you a break.” He released the man’s hand, but brought the butt of the gun down just behind his ear; one blow was enough to make him fall, unconscious. It was a matter of seconds to rip off his tie, knot it about his ankles, then tie his wrists together behind him, using two handkerchiefs knotted together.
    He pushed the man against the wall, then turned and hurried downstairs.
    He stopped at the street door, but no one was waiting outside. He looked in both directions. The Bristol was where he had left it, but the black car had disappeared. He hurried out and along the street towards Gresham Mews, a little courtyard which had once housed the stables for the gentry in the terrace, and which now housed cars and one or two servants of the few remaining rich. An alley, leading from the mews led to the areas at the back of this side of Gresham Terrace, and led also to the fire escape at Number 22G.
    No one was about.
    Rollison climbed it, making the iron steps ring, and the handrail shake. A woman at a window half-way up stared at him in surprise; he waved to her. She did not come out on to the platform; probably she wasn’t surprised at anything that her top flat neighbour did. He reached the back door of his own flat. It was locked and bolted, but long, long ago he had arranged a contraption beneath the fire escape platform, by which he could unbolt it from the outside. He heard the bolts slide back, unlocked the door, and pushed it open gradually. He found himself looking upwards, to see if any kind of booby trap was there.
    He saw none.
    He locked and bolted the door after him, then stepped into the small kitchen, which was spick and span and empty. He felt an easing tension as he went past the spare bedroom and his own, and then stepped into the living-room.
    The first thing he saw had nothing to do with fire or booby traps.
    His trophy wall had been stripped bare.
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Chapter Eight
The Empty Wall
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    Where there had been the hempen rope and the miniature gallows arm, the holed top hat, the cuckoo