The Toff on Fire Read Free

Scotland Yard at night?”
    â€œNothing guaranteed,” said Rollison, and waited for Esmeralda to say whatever she had to say now.
    They were in a narrow Mayfair Street outside the Star Club. Above their heads was a small star, shaped out of yellow neon, which gave them all a peculiar look of jaundice, and flattered no one, not even the pretty girl. Except for the star and the street lamps, it was very dark. Had he had his way, Rollison would have driven alone round the empty streets, to relish the feel and the smell and the ghost of London at night. For this was his home, and he had a great affection for it.
    Recently he had been in the United States for several months, following his peculiar kind of business, and now that he was back, London exerted its unseen influence again.
    He knew that he intrigued both Esmeralda and her aunt, but had a suspicion that earlier in the evening Jane Wylie had slightly disapproved. That was not surprising, for he had a reputation for being both a ladies’ man and a lady-killer, and of leading a strange life, half in his own milieu of Mayfair, half in London’s murky East End.
    And this was partly true.
    Esmeralda would not disapprove, however wild the rumours. She had already made that obvious, by her eagerness to dance and touch and whisper in his ear while dancing. It was to his eternal credit that he did not take advantage of the many girls of Esmeralda’s age and comeliness who found that his good looks, his dark hair with its tendency to wave, and the glints in his grey eyes, were all irresistible. There was an unending string of could-have-been conquests – a host of sweet young things who lived to bless his name.
    But Esmeralda—
    A gust of wind cut along the street; they would not want to wait much longer. In the distance, thunder rumbled, and the street lights glistened on wet roads and wet pavements. Inside the Star Club, the thunder had sounded even above the band and the dancing, but here and there stars showed, now, and the storm was nearly over.
    They waited upon Esmeralda.
    That was not only because she was spoiled, but because this was one of a few days’ holiday; she wanted to make the most of them, and they were anxious to help her. Waiting, they gazed upon her, and Rollison, who was old enough to think of Esmeralda as being very, very young, saw the light come slowly into her eyes. This was the dawning of some great idea. Rollison groaned, inwardly, for there were far better ways of spending the witching hours than listening to slow music or frenzied bop, drinking indifferent champagne and eating stale sausages.
    â€œI know,” declared Esmeralda, and took hold of Rollison’s hands. “We’ll go to your flat, and have another drink. You can tell us all about every thing.”
    â€œIt’s hard to believe,” said Rollison, with some relief, “but there are things about everything which I don’t yet know. Come by all means, but are you sure—”
    â€œOf course I’m sure!” cried Esmeralda. “It was talking about Scotland Yard that made me think of it. Do you know, it’s very hard to realise that you are a modern Sherlock Holmes, a kind of—”
    â€œThat’s almost sacrilege,” Rollison reproved. “Don’t let anyone with a passion for Holmesiana hear you say it.”
    â€œOf course you’d make light of it,” scoffed Esmeralda, and she appealed to her aunt for support. “Jane, isn’t he a detective? I mean, isn’t he a famous detective? I mean—”
    â€œHad the shock of my life, once,” put in Wylie, as if he meant it. “Had to go and see a chap at the Home Office, happened to coincide with a wave of smash-and-grabbing. You know.” Wylie was large and solid, stolid and, by reputation, unimaginative. “Actually heard a VIP from Scotland Yard say to my opposite number, ‘what we’re going to do is see if