Read Online The Toff on Fire by John Creasey - Free Book Online Page B

to the wall, peering upwards. He was heading for the front door, and there was little likelihood that he would come back alone.
    Rollison fired again. A bullet smacked into the floor not a foot away from the other’s foot. As it did so, the man leapt desperately for the street door, which was ajar. He didn’t close the door as he rushed out.
    Rollison relaxed, drawing the back of his hand across his forehead; he was wet with cold sweat. Then he eased his collar, dabbed at his neck, and slipped the gun into his pocket. Next he studied the unconscious man, who had fallen just clear of the hair carpet, and struck the stone floor. The blow might have put him out for ten minutes, or he might come round at any moment; and people from the other flats might come up or down the stairs.
    â€œI hate to do it,” Rollison said. “I’d much rather make you walk.”
    He bent down, hoisted the man to his shoulders, and straightened up. He staggered, but kept upright. Now and again he rested on the way up, but he reached the landing outside his front door without disaster. He was breathing very hard, and thinking harsh things about the soft life he had been living, when he felt his victim’s body stiffen.
    The man was coming round.
    Rollison let him slide to the ground, then supported him against the wall. Two old folk had been choked to death, and this man’s hands might be the hands which had done the choking. They were big and powerful. He wasn’t fully conscious yet, but his eyelids were flickering, and he was able to stand upright. Rollison was grateful for the respite, and the chance to get his breath back. He took out a cigarette but didn’t light it, and he waited for understanding to dawn in the other’s eyes.
    Those eyes opened very wide, and for the first time the man appeared to realise what had happened. He opened his mouth, and closed it again, abruptly. He squared his shoulders, looked right and left, towards the head of the stairs and then towards the unlocked door, which was within hand’s reach of him.
    He seemed to go stiff with fear.
    â€œGood morning,” said Rollison politely. “Quite chilly, isn’t it?”
    He wasn’t surprised when the man reared up, turned, and flung himself towards the stairs. Rollison promptly put out his right foot; the other tripped over it and fell headlong, this time hitting the floor with his forehead.
    â€œFirst the back and then the front; you’re making quite a job of it,” murmured Rollison. “But as you work for the Doc, he’ll probably patch you up. If he ever sees you again, of course.” He grinned almost inanely as the other began to get to his feet. “That will depend on the little chat we’re going to have.”
    The man was now on his knees; swaying.
    â€œYou can do better than that,” encouraged Rollison, “get straight up and step right into my parlour.”
    The man licked his lips; and there was terror in him.
    He was as tall as Rollison, which meant that he stood over six feet. He was very broad, and looked very powerful. His face was ruddy-hued, as if he lived an outdoor life, and there was little doubt of his physical strength. There was nothing ugly or uncouth about him; his features were quite good, and he wasn’t bad-looking.
    But he was terrified.
    That might be partly due to shock at coming round and finding himself a prisoner. Whatever the reason, the fear was there.
    Frightened men often talked freely.
    â€œAfter you,” invited Rollison, and extended his hand towards the door.
    The man said: “I—I—no! Don’t—”
    â€œBut I insist,” said Rollison earnestly, “toujours la politesse and all those continental gallantries. Inside.” He took the man’s right arm and propelled him towards the door – and met a weight of resistance he hadn’t expected.
    Fifteen stone of flesh, bone and blood leaned heavily