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

weren’t covered. That shocking bore Dawson thinks he had a tyre print taken from Jeff’s shirt, but that’s the only hope there.”
    Rollison was suddenly wide awake.
    â€œAny news of Jeff?”
    â€œMultiple internal injuries and fractured arm and hip. No more than a fifty-fifty chance, the hospital says, but they’ll pull him through if it’s possible. Have you got anything else?”
    â€œNo,” Rollison said, and half wished that there was no need to lie. “There’s something you can do for me, though.”
    â€œWhat is it?”
    â€œLeave a message to whoever is taking over from you that I might want to find out an address starting from a telephone number.”
    â€œIt’s Bill Grice,” Marshall said. “Doesn’t he always eat out of your hand?”
    Rollison said: “Never known it yet,” but he felt more cheerful, for he knew Grice well and was sure that Grice would help in every way he could. “Thanks.”
    â€œWhat’s this about a telephone number?”
    â€œOne Mrs Kane remembers her husband using a lot.”
    â€œOh. Well, I wish you luck,” Marshall said, and then broke off; the sound which followed seemed as if he had been caught with a gargantuan yawn. “. . . ugh,” he finished. “Sorry. Goodbye.”
    He rang off.
    Jolly was asleep; and so was Eve. Her back was turned towards Rollison when he looked in, and the bedclothes were drawn right up to her shoulders, in spite of the sticky warmth of the morning. He found himself wondering what her husband would say if he came here and saw her. Rollison had a cold bath, felt much better for it, munched biscuits and drank tea as he sat at his desk, the telephone in front of him. The first number that Eve had given him was Kensington 33412, and there was at least a chance that her memory was better than she realised. At ten minutes past nine exactly, he dialled the number.
    There was a long pause, and he began to wonder if it were an office which didn’t open until later; or an empty flat; or even a telephone call box. He was on the point of giving up when there was a break in the ringing sound, and a woman answered: “Marple Guest House.”
    â€œWhere?” asked Rollison, startled.
    â€œMarple Guest House,” the woman said, and she sounded breathless. “Who do you want?”
    â€œIs Leah there, please?” asked Rollison, and was answered almost before he had finished speaking.
    â€œIt’s no use asking me to wake Leah, she wasn’t in until after two, and she’s like a log until ten or eleven every morning, anyway. Can I give her a message?”
    â€œNo,” Rollison said, his heart thumping. “I’ll call again.”
    He put down the receiver, very slowly, and as the bell went ting! he heard a rustle of movement in the door behind him. He turned. Eve was standing in the doorway, a pale blue dressing-gown loosely round her, her hair dishevelled and yet attractive, her face as attractive although she had on no make-up. She was holding the dressing-gown together at the waist.
    â€œWhat is it?” she demanded eagerly. “Why are you smiling?”
    â€œThere’s a Leah still at Kensington 33412,” Rollison said quietly. “The first number I tried. That’s the kind of luck that needs following up. I’m going to see her alone. I want you to take it easy here, and when Jolly wakes make him telephone Dr Welling, or telephone yourself. Will you?”
    â€œYes, of course. Dr Welling?”
    â€œYes. Thanks,” said Rollison. “And there’s negative news, too.” He told her about the airport story, but not about the morphia, and he saw the glow of hope in her eyes.
    Â 
    At a quarter to eleven, Rollison reached a corner house in a quiet Kensington Street – Marple Street. A small sign fastened to the wall by the porch, which was supported by two rounded pillars,