The Toff on Fire by John Creasey

greater than the discovery of the old couple in their old world home. He was at a stage when he knew that unless he was very careful he would make some appalling mistake. He needed rest, and also time to think much more clearly – and he needed to know much, much more about the Doc. This man told him a little, mostly confirmation of what Grice had said, although with a few added items; for instance, that the Doc used runners who relayed messages which often came at third, fourth or fifth hand. The Doc had succeeded in covering his own trail so that he baffled not only the police, but the men who worked for him.
    Rollison questioned the man for ten minutes, but learned little else. His name was Galloway, and letters in his pocket were addressed to J. Galloway, 51 Crane Street, Fulham. His driving licence had the same details. He knew his partner as Jack, but didn’t know his surname, and he’d met him by appointment; certainly the Doc did not let anyone know too much.
    Rollison took him into Jolly’s bedroom, where there was a large wardrobe, made Galloway get inside and locked the door on him. It had been used as a temporary prison before, and there was no danger that the man would get out. He moved back into the big room, went across to the cocktail cabinet, and poured himself a stiff whisky-and-soda. As the soda was squirting, the telephone bell rang.
    Grice?
    He glared across, in no mood to talk to anyone; but there was no sense in that. He picked up the receiver, and barked: “Rollison.”
    A girl said, in a startled way: “Eh?” He knew that it was Esmeralda, and the last thing he wanted was to exchange light badinage with her; but he had to be civil.
    â€œThis is Richard Rollison—”
    â€œBut Lothario,” protested Esmeralda, “you sound as if you’ve failed to make a conquest for months.”
    â€œI don’t forget you that easily,” said Rollison, and for once he silenced Esmeralda. “Where are you speaking from?”
    â€œJane’s house. I thought—”
    â€œHow’s the baby?”
    Esmeralda answered in a different, lighter tone, as if she was now talking about something which really mattered. The change was almost startling, and it brought Rollison his first moment’s relaxation since he had reached Scotland Yard.
    â€œOh, he’s sweet,” said Esmeralda. “He’s so tiny, it’s hard to believe he’ll grow up to be a—well, a grown-up. I haven’t had much to do with babies, but if they’re all like this I think I’ll have to get better acquainted.” She laughed as if she was coming out of a kind of trance. “Rolly, how did you sleep?”
    â€œI didn’t, I had to go out,” said Rollison, “and I’m so tired now that I can hardly keep my eyes open.”
    â€œPoor, sweet Lothario,” sympathised Esmeralda, “and I had to choose this minute to worry you. When do you think you will have had enough sleep?”
    â€œSupposing I call you?”
    â€œDo that,” agreed Esmeralda, with surprising mildness, “but make a note of my flat telephone number; I’ve arranged to go back to Shepherd Market. It’s Mayfair 91321.” She paused while Rollison scribbled. “Got that?”
    â€œYes, thanks,” said Rollison, “I’ll call you some time tonight.”
    He heard her laugh as she rang off, and felt irritated, but that was as much with himself as with the girl.
    He remembered what little he knew about her – partly from gossip, partly from what she had told him last night. She had thought herself likely to be wealthy all her life, but her parents had died leaving little money. Rather than sponge too much on her richer relatives, the Wylies, Esmeralda had modelled a little for reputable artists and photographers, had worked as a mannequin, had tried unsuccessfully to get on to the stage.
    It was not exactly a unique