The Toff on Fire Read Free Page A

Rollison has any ideas’. You might,” added Wylie earnestly, “have knocked me over with a piece of straw. Always thought this reputation of yours was newspaper nonsense, Rollison. Isn’t, though. Congratulations. Is it true you have a kind of Black Museum at your flat?”
    â€œBlack Museum?” Esmeralda echoed, almost shrill. “You mean—you mean relics of crimes and things?”
    â€œEspecially things,” agreed Rollison mildly. “The odd knife or two, here and there a gun, a little poison and odds and ends of weapons of assault. You wouldn’t be interested at all.”
    â€œYou brute!” cried Esmeralda, “why didn’t you suggest this before?”
    She led the way to her uncle’s large grey car, and waited for Rollison to get in first. She slid in next to him, leaving the front for Jane and John Wylie. There was just time for Rollison to see Jane’s expression, and to realise that she was grateful that they weren’t club-crawling; then the doors were closed and Wylie started off, handling the Rolls-Bentley as if it was part of himself.
    Those who knew him slightly believed that he was at best an ass and at worst an oaf. He held a high and some what vague position in the Foreign Office, he was reputed to be absurdly rich, and until that evening Rollison, judging only from his reputation, would have given him no marks for tact. Yet his mention of a Black Museum had been the deciding factor; and obviously his wife was not the kind of woman who would gladly suffer a fool.
    They had met early that evening at a cocktail party, and Wylie had suggested dinner when Rollison had nothing in particular to do. He had been intrigued by Wylie’s restrained heartiness, and attracted by his niece, and so he had joined the party. Now he believed that he would always have a healthy respect for Wylie, but their acquaintance was not likely to blossom into a beautiful friendship.
    And Esmeralda was too young—
    Esmeralda, suddenly, was cuddling close against Rollison, and asking to be kissed. Silently. They passed street lamps and Rollison saw her fair face and her curly golden hair, now in a bright light and now in shadows; there were worse things in life than this. She wriggled so that Rollison put his arm round her shoulders, but he was as impersonal as it was possible to be, and soon she realised it.
    He was sorry that it had turned out this way. Esmeralda in a huff at the flat would not be amusing; he would probably regret—
    They passed another lamp and he looked down at her, and saw that she was smiling, almost laughing at him. He chuckled gave her a squeeze which made her breathless and then kissed her on the lips. Esmeralda gave a mock sigh, and snuggled comfortably close.
    â€œGresham Terrace, didn’t you say?” Wylie said, without looking round.
    â€œYes, that’s right. Number 22.”
    â€œNot far now,” said Wylie, and stifled a yawn. “Don’t be surprised if I drop off to sleep, will you. Had a heavy day.”
    â€œHa-ha,” said Esmeralda, derisively.
    â€œYoung people,” complained Wylie, “no respect.” He turned two corners, and they were in Gresham Terrace, where Rollison had lived for many, many years. The light was still on in the hall, the 22 jet black against the frosted glass. Wylie brought the car quietly to a standstill, and a minute later Rollison was opening the ground floor door. Nothing suggested that it had been forced. He ushered the others in, and although they were not unruly, their footsteps made plenty of noise. By the time they reached the top, Wylie was out of breath.
    â€œMust say this,” he said, pausing between words. “My medal goes to the man who invented lifts.”
    It was dry but it wasn’t even slightly funny. Rollison speculated how long the visit would last. Half an hour was too sanguine. An hour? If he judged Jane Wylie aright she would leave for