Free The Toff and the Kidnapped Child by John Creasey Page A

anno Domini. So Jolly had been up; and he should have been allowed to sleep the clock round. Rollison opened the envelope and the fact that it was sealed told him that Jolly had meant to impress him with its seriousness. It read:
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    â€œThere was a telephone call at 3.45, sir.
    â€œThe caller, a man with a slightly coarse voice, said that he now realises that the police will have to be told something of what has happened, but that if they are told of the cash request, the child will not be returned. He said that he would be sending Mrs K. further instructions.
    â€œAs there was nothing else I could reasonably do, I decided to return to bed. Please call me immediately you are in – I shall be perfectly well.”
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    Rollison put the note down, looked sardonically at the Trophy Wall, and said sotto voce: “All very calm and under control.” He put the note in his pocket, and went into the kitchen. “They’re very sure of themselves, but they shouldn’t have run Jeff down.” He made tea, took biscuits from the larder and carried them into the spare room. There was no nonsense about Eve Kane: she was in bed, lying back on the pillows, wearing a borrowed pale blue nightdress; her eyes looked lack-lustre.
    â€œI don’t want anything,” she said. “I saw some veronal tablets in the bathroom and took one – if I don’t get some sleep, I shall be no use at all.”
    â€œYou’ll sleep like a top.”
    â€œWe’ll see,” she said, and when he turned to the door and had his hand on the switch, she said: “Rolly, it’s quite impossible for me to say how grateful I am.”
    â€œForget it,” he said. “Good night, Eve.” He turned out the light, went into the passage, and closed the door slowly. He moved away, as slowly. She was not truly beautiful and she had probably never looked more dishevelled than she did now, but there was a quality in her which caught and held him. He had never felt quite like this before. He grinned at himself, and went into his own bedroom, stripped, put on pyjamas and slipped into bed; it had been a waste of time making that tea. He needed a few hours’ sleep, and it wouldn’t be much use trying to trace this Leah too early in the morning. Kensington 33412, or 443x2, or—
    He began to count permutations as one might count sheep, until eventually he dropped off.
    The telephone bell woke him.
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8
KENSINGTON 33412
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    â€œRollison here,” Rollison said gruffly.
    â€œHold on, please, Superintendent Marshall wants you,” a girl said with a brightness which seemed hideous in Rollison’s ears. He sat up in bed, one eye open, and squinted at the bedside clock; it was twenty minutes past eight. He hoped the ringing hadn’t disturbed Jolly or Eve. He held on for what seemed a long time, and no one else moved in the flat. Then Marshall came on: “Rolly?”
    â€œDon’t you ever go home?”
    â€œI’m on my way, but I thought you’d like a word first,” said Marshall, gruffly: he might have been talking after a night’s rest, not after a long spell of duty. “We traced the drug in that needle. Morphia. No way of being sure how much, but a normal dose would put a girl under for eight or nine hours. We’ve got a line of sorts on that Super Snipe, too. It was driven to the airport by a Teddy boy type, thirty-ish, on his own. He walked out of the car park and wasn’t noticed after that. He didn’t go to one of the loading platforms or the customs bays, and he certainly didn’t have a girl with him. Shouldn’t think Caroline Kane went off from London airport; that was a blind. You listening?”
    â€œAnd marvelling,” Rollison said. “Thanks very much, Nick.”
    â€œOnly hope we can find that kid,” Marshall said. “We haven’t traced the Hillman – it was a bad time of night, and too many roads