Here Comes the Toff Read Free Page B

hadn’t. She had a man with her.”
    â€œA young man, sir?” Jolly sounded almost deprecating as he broke a silence that had lingered for thirty seconds.
    â€œCertainly not young, Jolly. It’s no case of joie de vivre , or fun and games. Nor do I believe that Irma will ever sink to being kept by an octogenarian.”
    â€œIt is hardly likely, sir.” Jolly, standing at ease by the cocktail cabinet, and with the fingers and thumb of one hand pressed on the top, looked slight and grey and miserable. He had a face which most would have called nondescript, for he was rarely noticeable in a crowd. Nor were the features particularly good, being somewhat sharp, with the eyes deep-set and yet wide apart. “The man was over fifty, then, sir?”
    The Toff looked at him sharply.
    â€œI don’t feel funny, Jolly. Irma back in London is the last thing I expected, and she’s hooking the fellow for a certainty. As we can’t find her at short notice, we’ll have to try to find him. I’ve seen him about, but I can’t place him.”
    â€œAt a club, sir?”
    â€œQuite likely at a club,” admitted the Toff, and scowled. “Which means that I shall have to do a club-crawl tomorrow, Jolly, or—oh, damn!”
    â€œYes, sir?” Jolly was inquisitive.
    â€œI’m busy tomorrow,” said the Toff very thoughtfully, and he drew his forefinger along his nose, a trick he had, and of which he was unconscious. “I can’t put the appointment off, that’s certain. Irma will have to sweat for twenty-four hours.”
    â€œQuite likely she will, sir,” murmured Jolly.
    The Toff’s eyes gleamed.
    â€œI hope you’re right! On the other hand, she appeared to be as calm as ever, and she got away from us nicely tonight. Too nicely. The boy friend, of course, could be involved in whatever racket she’s playing, but I doubt that.”
    â€œYou’re sure there is a racket, sir?”
    â€œI’ve told you,” said the Toff, with dignity, “that Irma is in London. Irma would not be in London without some fell purpose. I—Jolly! A moment, Jolly, a single moment!”
    He lifted a hand as if enjoining silence, and fingered the bridge of his nose, so obviously deep in thought that Jolly knew he had recalled where he had seen Irma Cardew’s companion.
    â€œPictures,” said the Toff, almost dreamily. “Paintings. Art. Art galleries. Italian paintings. A show of Italian art, Renaissance period, at the Balliol Gallery, Bruton Street. The name of one of the contributors, Jolly, one of the gentlemen who lent the pictures—Jolly, a catalogue of that show! In a hurry, if you please.”
    â€œYes, sir,” said Jolly. “It’s in your room, sir.”
    It happened that the Toff had at one time been more than friendly with the Contessa Grinaldi, who – being Italian – had, of course, demanded to see the display of Italian art. The Contessa, who would have found it difficult to differentiate between a Picasso and an Annigoni, had voted herself delighted, and the catalogue would always remain one of her most treasured possessions. She had, of course, left it in the Toff’s flat after her third and last visit, and Jolly – as was his habit – had stored it safely away. He brought it to the Toff.
    There were a dozen pages devoted to the patrons of the Exhibition, and the fifth at which the Toff looked showed him a likeness of the man who had been with Irma Cardew. A likeness, that was, of a sort. The man seemed little more than fifty, and appeared more upright than the one he had seen that night. This suggested that the photograph was an old one, and touched up considerably, but it was enough for identification.
    â€œRenway,” said the Toff slowly. “Mr. Paul Renway, Jolly, whose kindness in supporting the exhibition is herein duly and suitably acknowledged. He owns