Salute the Toff Read Free

Right?”
    â€œPerfect!”
    â€œA deep voice, perpetual complaints, and a passion for all things cricketing,” added the Toff. “Well, the unexpected is often happening, and I certainly did not expect a mystery from Ted Harrison. Are you ready?”
    She looked startled.
    â€œFor what?”
    â€œFor Draycott’s flat.”
    â€œBut—but how are you going to get in?”
    The Toff, stepping towards his bedroom, looked at her over his shoulder with so comical an expression that she had to laugh. He did not tell her that into his pocket he had slipped a knife which had as one of its blades a pick-lock that had not yet failed him on ordinary locks, together with an interesting instrument with which to get past a Yale.
    She had heard vaguely of the Toff, remembering the occasional mornings when the headlines of the popular Press told a story in which he figured. She had thought little of it, for to her it had seemed that he was a dilettante of crime about whom the Press had woven a legend. But now that she had seen him she found that her opinion was altered. There was at once something unassuming and reassuring about him, something suggesting that the mystery was the simplest thing to solve. He had not scoffed, nor thrown doubts, nor given her to believe that she was making mountains where there were none. In fact he had taken her visit and her story in his stride.
    He was absurdly good-looking, of course, and it would have been easy to imagine him indolent. The appointments and the furniture of the flat bespoke wealth, which often went with laziness. Yet, if Ted Harrison had told the truth, he cared little for luxury.
    She put that thought aside, for he led her downstairs and into Gresham Terrace. His flat, on the top floor of No. 55, was on a corner, and round the corner was a row of garages from which he took a Bristol. He did not seem to hurry, and did everything in leisurely fashion, but they were soon on the road to Chelsea. Draycott lived near the river.
    Sitting next to the Toff, Fay told him that she had several times visited the flat in the evenings, to help to get the work cleared up. It was a small one, consisting of a small bedroom, a tiny kitchen, but one large studio room which would be freezing in the winter, but was cool and airy in the warmer months. The house itself, a large one, had long since been converted into six flats. Most of the tenants were artists. “Really artists?” asked the Toff.
    â€œWell, I’ve only seen one or two of them, and they dress the part.” They reached 14 Grey Street in less than fifteen minutes. It was one of a long row of terraced houses, tall and narrow, dowdy and grey, with the woodwork mostly in need of paint, and few of the windows really clean. Drab lace curtains, turned yellow with age, were at many front windows, and outside several of the houses were notices of apartments to let or offers of board-residence at moderate charges. It was neither impressive nor particularly depressing, and to the Toff the most homely sound was the hoot of a siren as a tug or a small cargo-boat passed along the Thames, some hundred yards from the end of the thoroughfare. The Toff pulled up and opened the door for her. “I don’t know what Mr. Draycott would say,” she said a little uncertainly.
    â€œHe needn’t know,” said the Toff. “And certainly you played no part in it, beyond telling me you were concerned for the gentleman, which should please him.”
    â€œWhy?” asked Fay.
    â€œWell,” said the Toff easily, “it would please me.” The hall of the house was dark.
    From one of the flats a radio blared, and in another someone was making a hash of a Bach prelude. The stairs creaked noisily. One piece of the balustrade was broken, and he caught his hand on a splinter and winced. Together they reached the top landing. That was as large as the hall, and there were two flats – with