Introducing The Toff by John Creasey Page A

the corner. By now Dragoli’s Daimler was a hundred yards away, racing along the road at a frantic speed. The pursuing police car would never overtake it unless there was a traffic block.
    But McNab was not worried about that. In a dozen places police cars and Flying-squad cars were looking out for the blue Daimler, helped by the directions which Simpson radioed second by second. Unless the Daimler was lost somewhere in the rabbit-warrens of the East End, it would never get away. The police net was closing round it minute by minute.
     
    The Toff was sprawling across his bed when he came to, and his first sensation was a violent pain in his stomach. He lay back gasping for a minute, while the pain gradually dulled. Then he struggled into a sitting position, feeling a firm hand on his arm.
    ‘Steady,’ said a quiet voice. ‘Don’t overdo it.’
    The Toff managed a feeble grin. He felt as though every atom of strength had been drained from him, and the thought of overdoing anything was ironic, to say the least of it.
    He looked into the face of the man who was bending over him and grinned again.
    ‘Hallo, Doc! Getting quite good friends, aren’t we?’
    The doctor, the same man who had attended Anne Farraway on the previous evening, smiled grimly. He had forced a violent restorative down the Toff’s throat, but only at the urgent request of the tall, iron-grey man who was standing by the window, staring anxiously at the Toff.
    The Toff saw the man, and frowned. He recognized him vaguely, but his mind was cloudy – nothing seemed clear. He could not even remember what had been happening.
    Then he saw something in the iron-grey man’s hands, and a flash of understanding went through his mind. The grin left his face. For the man was holding a shoe, and the Toff remembered what had been in the shoe.
    He recognized the stranger too. It was Sir Ian Warrender, an Assistant Commissioner of Police at Scotland Yard, and that meant business.
    Warrender took a step towards him.
    ‘Did you get ‘em?’ snapped the Toff.
    ‘No,’ said Warrender, and his voice was harsh. ‘We lost them in Shadwell. McNab’s hunting through the docks.’
    The Toff slid off the bed quickly, and his mouth was grim. He waved the doctor aside.
    ‘I’m all right,’ he said briefly. ‘Thanks.’ He looked at Warrender. ‘Dragoli’s gone to earth at the “Red Lion”, and I know the way to the place blindfold. Is your car outside?’
    The Assistant Commissioner smiled grimly.
    ‘There are three cars outside,’ he said, ‘with a full complement of men, waiting for you to come round.’
    The Toff was at the door.
    ‘Let’s get to them,’ he said laconically. ‘And, by God, if Dragoli’s hurt that girl I’ll tear him to pieces!’

 
8:   TROUBLE AT THE ‘RED LION’
    The three police cars tore through London towards the East End. The Toff was at the wheel of the leading car, with Sir Ian Warrender sitting next to him. Behind them they could hear the tapping of the radio signals which were being flashed.
    ‘All police cars meet at “Red Lion”, Shadwell. All cars to radio arrival and situation at “Red Lion”.’
    Time and time again the message went out. Every few minutes the Assistant Commissioner turned in his seat to see if there was any message from other cars. The operator, sitting upright, with the earphones pressed close to his head, made no signal at first.
    The Toff, his eyes on the road in front of him, zigzagging the powerful police car, was not thinking of the wireless messages. He was thinking of Anne Farraway in Dragoli’s hands, and the thought of what that Eastern degenerate might do to her made him writhe mentally.
    The car was roaring along the Mile End Road when Warrender touched the Toff’s arm.
    ‘Well?’ rapped the Toff, missing the tail-board of a lorry by a hairbreadth.
    Warrender’s voice was thin with excitement.
    ‘McNab’s at the “Red Lion”, with a dozen men,’ he said. ‘They’re raiding