Introducing The Toff by John Creasey

Egyptian.
    In a trice both men were across the small hall and in the Toff’s sitting-room. The Toff was lying by the table, on his back, and breathing torturously. Anne Farraway was in a huddled heap three yards away from him.
    ‘You take her,’ said Dragoli. ‘I will drag Rollison towards the door.’
    Garrotty picked the girl up and swayed towards the door, carrying her with hardly an effort, her limp form over his shoulder. He was on the landing outside before Dragoli had pulled the Toff as far as the first door.
    And then the Egyptian heard something which made him loosen his hold of the Toff and dart towards the window. It was the sound of a high-powered car which drew up outside the house.
    The murmur of voices floated upwards - one, a gruff, authoritative voice.
    ‘Is everything all right up there?’
    ‘Nobody’s been out, sir,’ came the answer.
    ‘Good.’
    Dragoli stared out of the window, hidden from view by the curtains. He saw Chief-Inspector McNab stepping out of his car, and saw one of the watching detectives draw near him.
    Dragoli swore vilely. He swung round, darting his left hand to his pocket for a gun. The Toff would have to be left behind – but he would be dead.
    Then the Egyptian cursed again, for the gun wasn’t there. He remembered taking it from his pocket in the next-door flat, and the chance was gone.
    He thought once of smashing a chair on the Toff’s skull, but it would take time, and time was precious. McNab’s heavy footsteps were sounding on the stairs. In less than half a minute the detective would be outside the door.
    Dragoli stepped over the Toff’s prostrate body and sped along to the kitchen. It was a matter of seconds now. He heard the policeman’s heavy tread on the top stair, and a sudden gasp of consternation.
    McNab had seen the Toff!
    Garrotty appeared suddenly on the landing, and the Yank’s eyes widened at the fear on Dragoli’s face.
    ‘What’s up, boss?’
    ‘The police,’ hissed Dragoli. ‘Get down to the car.’
    Again the position of the house – on the corner – was invaluable. The car, with a uniformed chauffeur sitting at the wheel, and the inert body of Anne Farraway lolling back in the rear seat, was outside. The watching detectives had seen it, but being in a different street it had not occurred to them that it was concerned with the Toff.
    One of them heard its engine whirring, but a second later was startled out of his wits by McNab’s stentorian bellow from the window of the Toff’s flat.
    ‘Simpson, blow your whistle! Get round the corner!’
    The detective jerked into motion. He saw the big car – a Daimler – sliding along the kerb, and with a sudden flash of intuition realized what it meant. He broke into a run, gesticulating wildly.
    McNab saw him and swung round, cursing. If he had been five minutes earlier he would have arrived in the nick of time. Now the girl was missing – the Toff unconscious.
    With a speed surprising in so sturdy a man, the Chief Inspector raced down the stairs and burst into the street. The police car was already on the move, and he jumped into it, rapping instructions to a policeman who was hurrying along the road, summoned by Simpson’s whistle. Farther down the street a second whistle blared. Footsteps thudded on the pavement.
    ‘Get a doctor up there!’ snapped McNab to the patrolman, and thudded into the seat next to the driver. ‘After them, James – like the devil!’
    The engine roared, and the police car swung round the corner. Detective Simpson made a flying leap for it, caught the door and managed to open it. He dropped back in the seat.
    McNab screwed his head round.
    ‘Use the wireless,’ he ordered. ‘Instruct all police cars to follow the blue Daimler, number double X seven-three-five-four-one, and police car seventeen.’ He turned round to the driver. ‘Is that Daimler number right?’
    The driver nodded. He had just been able to get the number as the police car had swerved round