The Toff And The Curate

by John Creasey

  Ten minutes later, the telephone rang again. This time, Rollison heard his man’s prim voice.

  “Good evening, sir.”

  “Well, well!” said Rollison and added sarcastically: “It’s nice of you to ring me.”

  “I’m sorry that I had no opportunity of telephoning earlier,” said Jolly, stolidly, “but my inquiries took me out of London and I had to choose between continuing with them and advising you that I could not do so. I came to the conclusion—”

  “Yes, you were right,” said Rollison, hastily. “Where are you now?”

  “In Loughton, sir, near Epping Forest. I—” there was a short pause before Jolly went on in a sharper voice: “I am quite all right but I must go now. I will telephone again at the earliest opportunity. Goodbye, sir!”

  Rollison heard the receiver bang down.

  He sat contemplating the telephone for some lime. It was rare that Jolly allowed himself lo he hurried and he had taken his time at the beginning of the conversation. Only one likely explanation presented itself—that Jolly was keeping watch on someone who had reappeared sooner than he had expected. Reassured, Rollison did not waste time in more than passing speculation on what had taken Jolly to Loughton.

  He looked through the evening papers for an account of the murder of the previous night. It was tucked away on an inside page and contained the statement that the murdered man’s name was O’Hara. Joseph Craik, of la, Jupe Street, had been charged with the murder and been remanded for eight days. Det Sergeant Bray, of Scotland Yard, had made the arrest. Inspector Chumley, of the AZ Division, was not so much as mentioned.

  “I suppose I shall have to find out what they’re doing sooner or later,” Rollison mused.

  Yet the more he pondered, the more determined he became to let the police make the first move. Craik would come to no harm while under remand—he might even be safer in Brixton than in his shop. Had Superintendent Grice been at the Yard, Rollison would have taken a different course; he could talk to Grice off the record and be sure that confidences would be respected, provided the law was not too openly flouted.

  A ring at the front door interrupted him.

  He opened it, warily, to see a vision in a flowered frock and a wide-brimmed hat with a radiant smile and a beauty spoiled only by a nose which some called retrousse. There were few callers he would have welcomed at that juncture, unless they were concerned in the affair of the harassed curate, but he felt a genuine pleasure at the sight of Isobel Crayne.

  “Rolly!” she cried.

  “Hallo!” He took her hand and kissed her on the cheek which she presented laughingly. Then he held her at arm’s length and eyed her with his head on one side and a gay smile in his eyes.

  “Yes,” he said at last “An improvement, even in you! Isobel, it’s good to see you!”

  “What an ass you are!” said Isobel, allowing herself to be drawn through the hall into the drawing-room. She took off her hat and dropped it into an easy chair, looking at him all the time. “How are you, Rolly?”

  “I was jaded,” declared Rollison. “In fact I was wondering how I could cheer myself up and lo! I open the door and a vision enters.”

  “Jaded?” asked Isobel, quickly. “Why?”

  “Oh, the weather—” began Rollison.

  “The weather never worried you yet and I don’t believe it ever will,” said Isobel. “And I don’t believe you are ever at a loose end.”

  “And I thought you’d come to ask me to take you out to dinner!”

  “Well, I haven’t, I’m on duty tonight,” said Isobel, “I haven’t had an evening tree for weeks.”

  “Don’t rub it in,” said Rollison. “I can’t dance attendance on you like your young men and—”

  “Rolly,” said Isobel, still smiling but with a more serious note in her voice, “I’m afraid you’ll want to show me the door when I tell you why I’ve come but—well, I felt that I had to. It’s rather a queer business. Are you very busy?”

  “That depends,” said Rollison, “if I can help you in any way I gladly will. I—confound you!” he broke off, laughing at her, “I wondered why you spoke up when I said I was jaded, you thought it meant that I’d jump at any excitements you might be able to offer. Isobel, you’re too cunning for beauty!”

  “Are you busy?” persisted Isobel.

  “It still depends on what you want,” said Rollison.

  He poured her out a long drink; the weather was still hot, although cooler than the previous day, and there was a breeze fresh enough to stir the curtains at the windows. A clear blue sky was visible above the house-tops and just within sight a barrage balloon floated with lazy majesty, as if disdainful of all that went on below.

  To some people, Isobel Crayne appeared disdainful, too, for she had a careless manner, at times one almost of condescension; but the Toff knew her for a warm-hearted young woman who did much good privately. She was working for one of the voluntary organisations and had been doing so since the beginning of the war. Not only did it take up most of her time but it also cost her a great deal of money.

  Abruptly, she said:

  “I’ve been working in your favourite hunting ground for some time, Rolly.”

  “East of Aldgate Pump?”

  “Yes. We’ve a depot down there.”

  “Much good work by the Red Cross?”

  Isobel looked at him in astonishment.

  “What a hopeless memory you’ve got! I’ve told you a dozen times that I do not work for the Red Cross. I’m WVS and we’re running canteens for dock-workers. I can’t imagine how you built up such a reputation as a detective, if you forget so easily.”

  “I forget what it isn’t necessary to remember,” said Rollison, justifying himself urbanely. “Whether you work for the Red Cross, Aid to China, Aid to Russia, Book Salvage, National Savings, Bone Recovery, ARP or any one of a dozen other equally worthy causes doesn’t matter; that you do the work matters a great deal.”

  “I am not impressed,” said Isobel. “In any case, ARP is now Civil Defence! Are you trying to side-track me?”

  “Certainly not. I’m waiting patiently for you to get to the point.”

  Isobel made a face at him.

  “I don’t suppose it’s anything that would interest you,” she went on, “but if you can possibly look into it, I would be glad. Honestly, I think it’s a deserving case. Don’t look like that!” she exclaimed, as Rollison’s expression grew long-suffering. “It’s not a girl who’s taken the wrong turning or a father of twelve who’s been picking pockets. It’s about—”

  Rollison’s expression altered so much that Isobel broke off and stared at him, and then went on: “A young curate, who—”

  “Well, well!” exclaimed Rollison, “so Ronald Kemp has a way with him!”

  “You know about it?” asked Isobel, incredulously.

  “I’ve heard about it,” said Rollison. “And you can set your mind at rest. If the great Richard R can turn the scales, the scales are in the process of being turned. How did Kemp win you to his side?”

  “He doesn’t even know my name,” Isobel told him. “I heard him preach in Mayfair some time ago and he came to the depot the other day, to see if we had a few odds and ends that he needed for a rummage sale. Have you met him?”

  “Yes.”

  “No one should have allowed him to go down there,” declared Isobel. “He’s hopelessly out of place. I felt sorry for him the moment I saw him and in the last day or two I’ve heard rumours that he’s being persecuted. But you probably know all about that?”

  “A lot about it,” said Rollison.

  “Then I needn’t worry any more.”

  “I call that praise indeed,” smiled Rollison. “I say, my sweet,” he went on anxiously, “you haven’t been campaigning on Kemp’s behalf, have you? I know that crusading heart of yours might have tempted you.”

  “I’ve learned not to interfere with anything that happens, unless it’s right under my nose,” said Isob
el. “The East Enders take me on sufferance as it is but if I started to throw my weight about, they’d boycott me. I just felt terribly sorry for Kemp.”

  “Don’t waste your sympathy,” advised Rollison. “He is either just the man for the district and is getting the corners smoothed off, or else he’s a misfit and he’ll find that out soon enough.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” said Isobel, looking at him curiously. “You’re much deeper than I realise, sometimes.”

  “Thanks,” said Rollison, wryly. “Now—I hate throwing advice about but don’t line yourself up with Kemp just yet on any account. I don’t mean that you mustn’t be sympathetic if he should come and pour out his troubles, which isn’t likely, but don’t let yourself be persuaded to take an active interest in the affairs of the parish.”

  Isobel’s eyes were calm.

  “So it’s dangerous?” she observed.

  “It might be.”

  “Look after him,” pleaded Isobel. “He’s only a child.”

  When she left, Rollison watched her tall graceful figure as she walked towards Piccadilly. She was about Kemp’s age and her: “He’s only a child,” echoed ironically in his ears.

  He left the flat ten minutes later.

  One pressing need was to see Bill Ebbutt, to find out what Bill knew of Keller and why he had been so silent on the telephone. It was a little after half-past six and he hoped to finish with Bill and spend half an hour with Kemp before getting back for a late dinner and, he hoped, Jolly’s report.

  He went by tube, got out at Whitechapel Station and walked along Whitechapel Road. Bill’s pub, the Blue Dog, was on a corner. Behind it was a large, corrugated iron shed which served as the gymnasium. The pub was closed but the gymnasium doors were open. Rollison bunched his fists, thinking that it would do him good to spend half an hour sparring with one of the younger men, or else on the medicine ball, but he quickly cast all thought of such frivolities out of his mind.

  Near the door, he was aware of loud noises.

  His smile broadened; it sounded as if half a dozen of Bill’s “lads’ were having a set-to at one and the same time, probably a free-for-all show which Bill had introduced at the urgent request of youths who were looking forward to joining the Commandos and wanted to be able to teach the Army its job.

  As he reached the door, a man somersaulted backwards into the street and not of his own accord. He fell heavily but picked himself up and scuttled away, towards the docks. He was thoroughly frightened—a little, wizened man who did not look like one of Bill’s faithfuls.

  Rollison pushed aside a tarpaulin which was used for blackout and stepped inside. A man fell against him but recovered quickly and his fist cracked into the face of a grizzled veteran of the ring whose head went back but whose right arm shot out to land a punch which rattled his opponent’s teeth. Everywhere, there was the wildest of free-for-alls. A dozen individual bouts were in progress, the battering of fists on faces and bodies and the harsh breathing of the fighters filled the big room; but no one was wearing gloves and at least two men were using knuckle-dusters.

  In the centre of the room, on the floor with two men kneeling on him and battering his face and head, was Bill Ebbutt.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  A Round To Club Members

  Rollison moved forward but had to side-step two couples engaged in furious battle and, as he passed a man whose right fist wore the ugly, spiked knuckle-duster characteristic of the East End mobsman, he clouted him on the side of the head. The fellow’s opponent, a much older man whose right cheek was opened and bleeding, did not appear to see Rollison but went in furiously with both fists.

  Rollison tried to reach Bill who was fighting back fiercely. They were using coshes on him but he was avoiding many of the blows.

  A little, thin-faced fellow stood up from a man who was gasping on the ground, saw Rollison and jumped at him. Rollison shot out his foot and sent the man reeling backwards. His victim banged into one of Bill’s men who tore into him. Next moment, Rollison was hauling one assailant off Bill, using his elbow against a bony chin. The other man was smashing at Bill’s head and Rollison gripped him about the waist and hauled him into the air. He put his knee into the small of his back and shot him forward; he hit the ground and lay still.

  Bruised but not bloody, Bill blinked up.

  “Gaw blimey O’Reilly!” he gasped. “Ta—Mr Ar! Look aht!”

  Rollison turned to see a man coming towards him brandishing a knife. He used his foot again and toppled the man over. The fighting was savage and desperate with the members of the club heavily outnumbered. Since none of them had weapons—except two who were swinging Indian clubs—the odds were against them. Rollison rushed across to the wall, picked up two more Indian clubs and began to swing them. The odds were still heavy but suddenly there was a clatter of footsteps outside and half a dozen men burst in, three of them in khaki. They were reinforcements for the “club” and they weighed in with a violence which altered the whole course of the struggle.

  Realising that their chance had gone, the assailants escaped as and when they could, running the gauntlet towards the door. A massive veteran stood by it and clouted each man as he dodged out.

  Rollison put down his clubs, smoothed his hair and went over to Bill Ebbutt who was now standing in the middle of the room and directing operations like a guerrilla leader. He said nothing until only three of the attacking party remained, all unconscious.

  “I could do with a pint, I could,” Ebbutt declared, looking at Rollison with one eye closed up and already swelling to huge proportions. “You come just at the right time, Mr Ar. You know ‘ow to work it, donclia.”

  Must luck,” said Rollison. “I’d no idea what was happening.”

  “I noo it was bound to come,” said Ebbutt, philosophically. He was a large man, running to fat but still very powerful. His features were rugged and battered, for he had spent thirty years in the ring, but his ears were curiously small and well-shaped; it was his dictum that a boxer who allowed himself to get cauliflower ears should take up stone-breaking. “Ho, yes, I noo,” he went on, trying to grin although his mouth was nearly as swollen as his eyes and he uttered the words with great difficulty. “Charlie!”

  “Callin’ me?” demanded a little man with enormously wide shoulders.

  “Who’d yer think I’m callin’?” growled Ebbutt. “Fetch some beer and glasses, mate, an’ be quick about it. An’ fetch me a coupla pound o’ beefsteak!” he added. “Strewth, Mr Ar, wartime’s a bad time to get a black eye, ain’t it? I don’t know wot my missus will say when she sees me.” He made a brave attempt to wink. “I’d better tell ‘er it was your fault, that’ll keep ‘er quiet!”

  He roared again. The beer arrived and the club members, now twenty strong and increasing every minute for an SOS had been sent out when the melee had started, began to drink eagerly. Of the three men who had been knocked out, two had recovered and been literally kicked out of the room; the other was still on the floor, conscious but detained for interrogation. He looked terrified and proved to be genuinely dumb.

  The fight had started about a quarter of an hour before Rollison had arrived when only half a dozen “club’ members had been present. The purpose, Ebbutt declared with assurance, had been to beat him up; he didn’t think Rollison would need telling why.

  “No,” agreed Rollison. “Keller wants to prise you off the Whitings.”

  It had been a likely enough move, although he had not expected one to materialise so quickly. The place had been admirably chosen. A beating-up in the street, by daylight, was a risky business for it might bring the police while after dark Ebbutt always had plenty of men with him. Also, Ebbutt told Rollison, as soon as he had known what the job was, he had locked his door and made sure no one could get in at his window. Because:

  “I know somefink about Keller,” he remarked, darkly.

  “I hadn’t heard of him until a day or two ago,” said Rollison.

  “No
more you didn’t want to,” declared Ebbutt. “ ‘E’s a swine, Mr Ar, I don’t mind sayin’ so—he’s a proper swine.”

  “How long has he been about?” asked Rollison.

  “Three Or four munce,” said Ebbutt. “No, more’n that. Six munce.”

  “What’s he up to?”

  “No use arstin’ me,” said Ebbutt “I minds me own business, you know that. “E’s a proper swine, Keller is. It’s my business all right now,” he went on and made a comical effort to lick his lips. “I don’t half sting,” he added, and managed to get beer past his lips. “ ‘ave another, Mr Ar?”

  “Not yet, thanks,” said Rollison. “Don’t you know anything about Keller’s game?”

  “I only knows that he’s got a mob and is runnin’ a racket,” declared Bill, “I dunno what I lie racket is. Tell yer somefing, Mr Ar.”

  Rollison waited.

  “Tell yer somefing wot will surprise yer,” declared Ebbutt. “ ‘E’s “ad a go at arf a dozen other swine. Blokes I wouldn’t-a’ minded bashin’ meself. Mr Ar, that’s a fact. No business o’ mine, then, seein’ as he was goin’ fer swine. But some of the things ‘e did to them—it would make yer scalp crawl, Mr Ar, it would reely. There was one fella—Tiny Blow, you know Tiny Blow? ‘e was inside fer lootin’,” Rollison nodded. “Well, Tiny come out about four munce ago,” went on Ebbutt. “ ‘E started throwin’ ‘is weight about. Keller hadn’t started, it was the first time I ‘eard of ‘im. I did hear that Tiny started a fight in The Docker and waited fer Lucy—been at The Docker ten yers, Lucy has.” Ebbutt sniffed. “Don’t know that I think much of her but Tiny didn’t ought to ‘ave waited for ‘er. Bad thing for ‘im he did, because four of Keller’s mob was waiting for him. He’s still in the ‘orspital. If it ‘ad been anyone else but Tiny, I woulda’ bin sorry for lm.

  “And the other cases have been as bad?”

  “More-less,” assented Ebbutt. “Except that I thought he was goin’ too far when he started on this parson bloke, Kemp.” Ebbutt sniffed again. “I got nothin’ against Kemp but he oughta know that he didn’t oughta come down to a place like this. He’s a torf. Don’t take me wrong, Mr Ar!” exclaimed Ebbutt, hurriedly. “I never meant nothin’ personal!”