The Toff and the Stolen Tresses Read Free Page B

custard towards him. He was weighing into the rock cakes again when there was another ring at the front door bell.
    â€˜Well, this is a night for callers,’ he said, and went along quickly. It crossed through his mind that the girl might have come back, but the shadow against the glass was of a tall man.
    He opened the door.
    He recognised the massive man who had been on the bus, had first gone ahead and later turned the corner behind him, but he did not think beyond that; there was no outward cause for fear.
    â€˜Good evening,’ he said.
    â€˜Your name Jones?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    Jim had never seen anyone move more quickly. The man shot out a fist and thumped him on the nose. The blow sent him staggering, and the pain brought tears flooding to his eyes. He banged up against the wall. He heard the door slam, and could just make out the figure of the tall man, blurred through those tears. He put up clenched fists and struck out, but it was like striking a whirlwind. He felt a cruel blow at the side of his jaw, pain which no ordinary knuckles could have caused streaked through his cheek and head. He took another blow on the chest, so fierce and savage that he cried out.
    Gasping and struggling, he tried to back away. The misty blur in front of his eyes was tinged red, and he felt as if every breath was tearing him apart. Then one blow smacked his head against the wall so heavily that he grunted, and lost consciousness.
    He slumped down.
    The tall man, who was breathing evenly and whose trilby was still firmly on his head, bent down and dragged him to one side, then opened the door. The little man was on the pavement, and he came hurrying in.
    The door closed.
    The little man looked down and said: ‘You’ve made a mess of him all right.’
    â€˜Go and lock the back door, too,’ the massive man said. ‘We don’t want to be interrupted, do we?’ He did not even glance at the unconscious man behind the door, but worked a brass knuckle duster off his right hand, smearing knuckles and fingers with blood as he did so.
    The little man came back.
    â€˜Door’s locked,’ he announced. ‘And Milly will ring the bell if anyone comes.’
    â€˜Okay, let’s get a move on,’ the other said. ‘We’ll have a quick look round first, and then we’ll make it look as if they’ve had a visit from an atom bomb.’
    As he spoke, he grinned, and the grin was not nice to see.
    And outside, the girl who had come to find whether Jim Jones was alone in the house sat waiting for them in a small car.
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Chapter Three
Visitor For The Toff
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    The Honourable Richard Rollison, known to so many as the Toff, and who much preferred to be known as plain Mr. Rollison, read about the attack on James Matthison Jones in the newspaper the next morning, together with a number of other reports from the twentieth-century world of peace and goodwill. An old lady had been beaten up in her shop and robbed of three pounds ten shillings, seven youths had set upon one youth and his girl in a cinema, and the youth and the girl were in hospital – as was the man named Jones. There were other crimes of violence, both in London and nearby, and one or two stories of little incidents in Glasgow did not exactly brighten the morning’s newspapers.
    He was at breakfast.
    It was ten o’clock.
    His worst friend must have admitted that he looked remarkably clear-eyed and clear-skinned for a man of forty-ish who had not come home until half past three; and they would also have admitted that whenever a woman called him handsome, the woman was right. It was a casual handsomeness at this moment, for although he had not shaved he had bathed. His hair was damp and curling more than usual and, if the truth were told, looking a little more grey at the sides than of yore. He read without glasses, and ate bacon and eggs and then toast and marmalade with the single-minded attention of the true