The Toff and the Lady

Toff #15

by John Creasey

The letter was addressed simply to "The Toff, London W1." Inside it was a photograph of a lovely woman. The lady herself had arrived at a society ball the previous night, looking deadly pale in black satin and mink. She said she had lost her memory and nobody knew who she was. Within days, murder and intrigue had followed her.

189 pages, Hardcover

First published February 1, 1946

About the author

AKA Gordon Ashe, M E Cooke, Norman Deane, Robert Caine Frazer, Patrick Gill, Michael Halliday, Charles Hogarth, Brian Hope, Colin Hughes, Kyle Hunt, Margaret Lisle, Abel Mann, Peter Manton, J.J. Marric, Richard Martin, Rodney Mattheson, Anthony Morton, Jeremy York, Henry St. John Cooper and Margaret Cooke.

John Creasey (September 17, 1908 - June 9, 1973) was born in Southfields, Surrey, England and died in New Hall, Bodenham, Salisbury Wiltshire, England. He was the seventh of nine children in a working class home. He became an English author of crime thrillers, published in excess of 600 books under 20+ different pseudonyms. He invented many famous characters who would appear in a whole series of novels. Probably the most famous of these is Gideon of Scotland Yard, the basis for the television program Gideon's Way but others include Department Z, Dr. Palfrey, The Toff, Inspector Roger West, and The Baron (which was also made into a television series). In 1962, Creasey won an Edgar Award for Best Novel, from the Mystery Writers of America, for Gideon's Fire, written under the pen name J. J. Marric. And in 1969 he was given the MWA's highest honor, the Grand Master Award.

Reviews

[ShanDizzy]

Between these two men there was a friendship the stronger because when they had first met it had been in an atmosphere of mutual suspicion, not far re- moved on Grice’s side from hostility. That was in the days when Rollison, so widely known as The Toff, had taken on himself the investigation of crimes with scant regard for police susceptibilities. The Toff had matured since then and the police even consulted him occasionally, although some officers at Scotland Yard could not forgive his early wilfulness. Grice knew his worth, however, and nothing seriously ruffled the calm of their association.

...It’s a bad one, in any case, and you aren’t the man to be intrigued by a loss of memory case unless you’ve a special reason.’ ‘Oh, I’ve a reason,’ said Rollison, ‘but before we go into that, tell me more. All I know of her I read in The Record. The story of the Bal Masque, where she turned up, is highly decorative.’ ‘It’s true enough,’ said Grice. Rollison raised his eyebrows. ‘The story isn’t in any of the other papers.’ ‘It didn’t happen until the ball was nearly over and most of the Press had gone home,’ said Grice. ‘The Record still runs a gossip column and their society newshound was there, when . . . ’ At half-past two, when even the gaiety of a function sponsored by Mrs Barrington-Ley was beginning to lose its vitality, the lady of the photograph had arrived at Barrington House. There, Mrs Barrington-Ley had staged a Bal Masque on behalf of the Action Committee for Famine Relief, a generous and timely gesture. The Bal Masque had been one of the social events of London and even the fact that it was held in September had not affected its success. Over five hundred people had been present and the proceeds would probably reach five thousand pounds, for there had been auctions of jewellery and mock-auctions and all manner of ingenious ruses for raising money. Everything had gone smoothly, as was to be expected of any event organised by Mrs Barrington-Ley, until half-past two when only a few dozen guests remained and most of them were beginning to collect their wraps and coats. Then into the ballroom, gay with lights and decorations, warm and filled with the haze of tobacco smoke, had come ‘the lady.’ No one had seen her enter but it had been a warm night with doors and windows wide open. Taxis and a few private cars were packed outside in a long line; there had been a constant stream of guests to and from the cars. Anyone could have entered Barrington House without difficulty. ‘The lady’ had walked from the main doors towards the centre of the room. Half-a-dozen little groups of people had been laughing and talking and the buffet, in an ante-room, was fairly full. The lady was wearing a black satin gown and over it a mink coat. There was nothing remarkable in that but her pallor had arrested the attention of the people who saw her, her pallor, said Grice and The Record, and her feverishly bright eyes. A dozen or more men and women had watched her and silence had fallen upon the hall when, in the middle of the floor, the lady had turned and looked about her in every direction . . . and then collapsed in a dead faint. She had not come round for over an hour, by which time the police had been called, because no one present knew her. ‘And is that the lot?’ asked Rollison. ‘It’s plenty, isn’t it?’ said Grice. ‘Yes and no. Isn’t it early for you to make an appeal through the Press?’ Grice laughed. ‘We didn’t. The Record said that we would welcome any information about her, which is true enough, but we would have waited for a day or two before publicizing it.

[Delores Alger]

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