Jolly, his man, came in from the kitchen with freshly made coffee. Some said that Jolly had obtained his post because in his far-off youthful days, Rollison had indulged a naive sense of humour, and Jolly had rhymed with Rolly. Whatever the truth of that, Jolly was now twenty-one years older. In those twenty-one years this flat, at Gresham Terrace in the heart of Mayfair, had seen some remarkable sights. It had also received some astounding visitors, many of them young and lovely, and had been redecorated five times, the last twelve months ago. The large walnut desk which seemed to fill one side of the room had not been changed; most of the pictures were old friends of the Toff and of Jolly, too, but the most remarkable thing that had happened in those twenty-one years was visible on the Trophy Wall.

This wall, behind the desk, was like a Black Museum from some unchronicled Scotland Yard. Here were all the exhibits the police could ever expect to find in trials of murder and general wickedness, and a few that no one would expect. For instance, the nylon stocking with a run sealed by nail varnish; and the chicken feathers, and the top hat with a bullet hole in the crown. Most of the trophies were lethal weapons, however, ranging from automatic pistols to knives, and poisons, and the piece de resistance was a hangman’s rope. The knowledgeable whispered that this had really hanged a man: when asked, the Toff always said of course it had, he kept nothing synthetic here.

Each trophy was from a case on which he had worked; some, from cases on which he had nearly died. A few came from investigations where he had actually worked with the approval and the blessing of the police. Most of these were of recent date, for either the Toff or the police had mellowed, and he had always had one supporter at the Yard, in Superintendent William Grice.