Free The Toff and the Stolen Tresses by John Creasey

of upper stratum of nineteenth-century slumland. It was still an upper stratum. Only a man who was doing very well indeed was likely to live in Dirk Street, where the rents were comparatively high and the cost of buying a house almost prohibitive.
    Tiny Wallis and Micky Clay lived at Number 11, the middle house of the terrace on the right hand side as Rollison drove in. The cranes and the masts of ships showed above the warehouse walls and the dock walls, not two hundred yards away. All the noises of the docks came into this street, sounding loud when Rollison switched off the engine. He stopped outside Number 19, and surveyed the scene, oblivious of the rattle of cranes and winches, the puff-puff-puff of engines, the shouting of men, the squealing of pulleys, the dismal sound of a ship’s siren. No one else was in the street, but outside Number 11 was a flashy-looking sports car; and it was fairly new.
    Most of the houses had been recently painted, the curtains at all the windows were clean; this was ‘class’ all right.
    Rollison got out.
    He was aware of the people at the windows, faces hidden by the curtains, hands in sight where they pulled the curtains back. This was a neighbourhood where people did not watch their neighbours out of simple curiosity, but because they wanted to keep a step ahead of danger; and two steps ahead of the police. Two of London’s most prosperous fences lived in Dirk Street; so did one of London’s most nimble burglars.
    So residents watched, forever wary.
    Rollison walked briskly towards Number 11. Four stone steps led from the pavement to the front door, and that in itself put the houses here in a higher social level than the hovels where the front door opened on to the narrow pavement. He knew that he was watched from this house, too, but simply rang the bell.
    No one answered at first.
    He turned so that he could see the street. Opposite Number 11 a woman had given up all pretence, and was staring at him openly. Two men appeared on the other side of the road, obviously spying.
    Rollison gave the bell a longer ring.
    This time there were footsteps, quick and light; a woman’s. She came straight to the door, but there was a long moment of hesitation before she opened it. When she did her foot was against it, so that the caller could not thrust it wide open easily. A woman looked at Rollison. She was in her early thirties, well made-up, wearing a black skirt and a beautifully ironed white silk blouse.
    â€˜Good afternoon.’ She was suspicious.
    â€˜Good afternoon,’ said Rollison politely. ‘Is Mr. Wallis in?’
    She said ‘No,’ flatly, and he wasn’t sure whether to believe her or not. The way she formed the word suggested that she was going to say ‘no’ to whatever he asked. She was a good-looking woman, and that silk blouse was well-filled.
    â€˜Mr. Clay?’
    â€˜No, they’re both out.’
    â€˜Do you mind if I wait?’ asked Rollison, and put his foot forward so that she couldn’t close the door, dropped his right hand to her wrist, and thrust her back. His broad shoulders hid all this from view of the person across the road. The woman opened her mouth to protest, but before she could he was inside the house, and the door was closing behind him.
    He let her go.
    â€˜You …!’ she spat at him, and struck him sharply across the face.
    â€˜That’s the first and the last,’ said Rollison, coldly. ‘Which one of them owns you?’
    â€˜If you don’t get out of here I’ll—’
    â€˜Bring the teddy bears to frighten me,’ suggested Rollison, and before she could draw back, took her wrist again and twisted enough to show her that he had complete control of the situation. ‘You won’t get hurt if you stop struggling and start being civil,’ he said. ‘Quite sure they’re out?’
    She didn’t answer.
    He believed that the men were out of