The Toff and the Stolen Tresses by John Creasey Page A

or two. Thanks, Bill.’
    He rang off.
    He lit a cigarette and poured himself another drink, then glanced out of the window and saw that several of the youths were there now; he had never seen so many people lounging about Gresham Terrace. Possibly they were there to try to make sure that Wallis’s wife was not taken away; as likely that they were coming to get her, and were waiting for a signal. Rollison let thoughts trickle through his mind. Perhaps the most puzzling one was Wallis’s action; for Wallis to complain to the police was remarkable, unless –
    He’d been ordered to complain.
    Who paid Wallis? Who was his ‘brain’?
    â€˜When we know that we’ll know most of the rest,’ said Rollison to himself, then finished his drink and went into the kitchen. Jolly had prepared everything for a mixed grill, and there was a note saying:
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    The meat is in the oven, sir.
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    Chipped potatoes, white and fresh, were in a basket next to a saucepan of fat, there were some frozen vegetables standing ready for the pot. Rollison shook his head in regretful self-denial, and went out of the kitchen door and down the fire escape; that kitchen door was self-locking, so that no one could tell whether it had been closed from the inside or the outside. His footsteps clanged a little on the iron as he went down, but none of the youths was in the yard.
    Rollison crossed this, and went to the corner of Gresham Terrace. A police patrol car with men in plain-clothes was crawling by, and two of the youths moved smartly across Gresham Terrace towards Number 22.
    â€˜I hope they don’t have time to do much damage,’ Rollison said with feeling, and winked at the driver of the patrol car. Then he walked rapidly towards Piccadilly, and took a taxi to Middleton Street, Chelsea. He had not yet seen the Blakes, who as far as he knew were the only people who might be able to explain the attack on Jimmy Jones.
    He knocked at the door of Number 24, and immediately there was a response, but no elderly person opened the door; instead a solid-looking man, obviously a Yard man in plain clothes, barred Rollison’s path. Then he recognised the visitor, and sprang almost to attention.
    â€˜Thanks,’ said Rollison, and smiled. ‘Old folk at home?’
    â€˜Oh, yes, sir.’
    â€˜How are they?’
    â€˜Oh, they’re much better now,’ said the plainclothes man. ‘Nearest thing to a miracle I’ve ever seen.’
    â€˜Miracle?’ echoed Rollison, blankly.
    â€˜That’s the word, sir! When I first saw them they looked ready to pass out, they hadn’t a stick left whole, and the fact that the neighbours were very kind didn’t make all that difference. Of course it helped, but—well, then this morning the new furniture and everything arrived. Wonderful lot of stuff, sir, and a bigger and better television set. Wonderful people, those Jepsons.’
    â€˜So the Jepsons did that,’ said Rollison, and had a mental image of Ada, so dumb-blondish and yet so shrewd. ‘Bless their hearts. Ask the Blakes if they can spare me five minutes, will you?’
    â€˜I’m sure they’ll be glad to,’ the plainclothes man said. ‘Mr. Blake’s in the kitchen, Mrs. Blake’s upstairs with Jimmy Jones and Miss Jepson. Didn’t you know Jones was back?’
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Chapter Eleven
Transformation
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    In the small house there was transformation.
    Rollison could tell this as he entered the narrow hallway, saw the front room on the right filled with new furniture, a new carpet; everything a home needed. He could see through to the kitchen, and a small room also on the right; there was bright newness everywhere. An elderly grey-haired man stood up from a chair, and revealed a television set; it was as if he had been watching the blank screen.
    He came forward.
    â€˜Mr. Blake, this is Mr. Rollison,’ the plainclothes man said. The grey-haired