The Toff And The Curate

by John Creasey

  Cobbett still looked miserable but nodded and obeyed.

  The fat woman wearing a coloured shawl and a tattered skirt, the hem of which dragged along the pavement, had heard every word. She moved on with a great effort when Craik finished his task, sniffing and saying in an audible voice:

  “If I’d have moved off soon’s the boy “ad stopped, he would’a said I was listening to ‘im, that ‘e would!” Her fleshy face was set in lines of disgust. She waddled as far as Little Lane, turned into it and eventually reached Number 49. Outside, two of Bill Ebbutt’s men called out good-humouredly: “What’s the latest, Ma?” She tossed her head at them and was admitted to the Whitings’ home by one of the children who called her Mrs Parsons. Then, she regaled the old woman at the house with everything she had heard.

  Mrs Parsons was, beyond all doubt, the district’s most notorious gossip. Some said there was no malice in her and that she could no more keep information to herself than a colander could hold water. The fact that she talked, and that no confidence was safe with her, was extremely well known—as was the fact that she had one particular crony, Mrs Whiting’s mother.

  She was not a stranger to Rollison, of whom she always spoke in hushed tones as “The Torf and before whom she always curtseyed, but he had not been to see her often recently for he had come to the conclusion that she developed trivial incidents so colourfully and plausibly that they became entirely different from the original.

  Soon, she was on her way again and immediately afterwards Mrs Whiting’s mother came hurrying out. So two tongues started wagging. Before long, the whole district knew that Cobbett was going to see the curate and wondered why. The story of the accident was already well-known and one of the characteristics of the East End was that when anything happened to the Toff, it had no chance of being passed over; it became an item of general interest.

  Rollison, unaware of the significance in the talk, walked along with the sergeant towards Scotland Yard.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The Return Of The Holiday-Maker

  Rollison was not greatly perturbed as he walked into the familiar hall of Scotland Yard, although a telephoned request would have been more normal. The fact that a sergeant had been waiting outside one entrance of the building suggested that the others had been watched, and that the Yard had been determined to see him quickly.

  On the way, he had talked about the weather.

  At the Yard, he asked who wanted to see him.

  “Superintendent Grice, sir,” said the sergeant.

  Rollison was pleasantly surprised for not only did he know Grice well but he was sure that Grice would be helpful whenever he could be. So he entered the spacious office with a smile, as Grice rose from his chair. The Superintendent was a tall, spare man whose complexion was normally very like a woman’s and whose skin was stretched tight across his face, particularly at his nose, thus emphasising its high bridge. Grice’s complexion and his large brown eyes—not unlike ‘Keller’s’—were his most noticeable features but Rollison was amazed when he saw him.

  “Well, well!” he exclaimed. “The holiday-maker returned—slightly sunburned!”

  Grice, his face bright red with sunburn, managed a painful grin.

  “Don’t rub it in,” he said. “It’s as stiff as blazes.”

  “The policeman who never grew up!” Rollison sat down and stretched out his long legs. “What’s brought you back early?”

  “You,” said Grice.

  “Not I—distrustful policemen elsewhere, I’m afraid.”

  “Judging from a “phone call I’ve had from Chumley, he’s more than distrustful—he’s highly suspicious! You needn’t tell me that he should know better. You should have treated Chumley more leniently, Rolly.”

  “He is rather fond of throwing his weight about and—”

  “You could have satisfied him without getting his back up,” remonstrated Grice.

  “I rather wanted his back up,” murmured Rollison.

  “I expected as much,” commented Grice. “Well, where will you start?”

  “I don’t start,” said Rollison, “I was badgered into coming here by a police sergeant whose expression proved that he knew he was doing the wrong thing. Whose idea was that?”

  “Mine. One of Chumley’s men was here and I made him see I really meant business.”

  “Good!” said Rollison. “What business? Whisky?”

  “Now you’re getting interesting,” said Grice. “What do you know about the whisky-running?”

  “Very little,” answered Rollison, cautiously. “I didn’t believe Gregson when he told me that he was stealing a few cases and passing them on at a profit. I think it goes deeper. Does it?”

  “Now you’re asking,” Grice said.

  Rollison took out his cigarette-case and lit a cigarette—Grice rarely smoked—and carefully replaced the case. After that, he contemplated Grice in silence for some minutes before saying, quietly:

  “You and I needn’t beat about the bush, need we?”

  “What really took you to Whitechapel in the first place?” asked Grice.

  “Kemp! Just Kemp! Nothing but Kemp! He was getting a raw deal and he’s still in danger, perhaps deadlier than before. So I’m still interested.” Rollison spoke quietly but emphatically. “I think he’s stumbled across a whisky-racket but I know nothing beyond that and I’m not going to theorise for Chumley, you, or the AC himself. The truth is,” went on Rollison, warming up, “that as soon as the word ‘whisky’ was mentioned Chumley pricked up his ears and, before I could turn round, you’d cut short your holiday. Presumably, you were working on it before, decided you could take a holiday but came haring back as soon as you knew that trouble had broken out about it.”

  Grice’s manner relaxed.

  “You’re pretty well on the mark, Rolly. But the thing I find it hard to believe and which Chumley refuses to accept is that you went down to Whitechapel on Kemp’s behalf alone. Was it partly because you’d been working on the case elsewhere and found a lead.”

  “It was not. Where do you imagine I would have started?”

  “I wouldn’t try to guess,” said Grice.

  “This last day or two I’ve guessed that there is a lot of hooch being distributed throughout the West End,” said Rollison. “Is there?”

  Grice leaned forward and spoke with unexpected warmth.

  “There is, and it’s not ordinary hooch. Much of it is poison. We’ve had complaints from our own service authorities, from the Americans and from several of the Allied Governments— officers and men in London on leave have drunk the stuff and made themselves ill. There have been two fatalities due to acute alcoholic poisoning. The deaths were directly attributable to the whisky. Do you mean to tell me that you didn’t know?”

  “Of course. I wouldn’t have been working overtime if I had. Do you mind if I use your telephone?” Grice looked puzzled but shook his head and Rollison put a call through to his office. In a few seconds, a weary Bimbleton answered him.

  “Bimble, old chap,” said Rollison, “have you heard about complaints in high places of some of our chaps suffering severely from drinking bad whisky in the West End?”

  “Yeh,” said Bimbleton and then articulated more clearly:

  “Why, yes, Rollison. I’m sorry. I was just eating a sandwich.”

  “Who is handling it?” asked Rollison. “The drink, not the sandwich.”

  “Cracknell,” Bimbleton said.

  “Is he on duty, do you know?”

  “No, he’s left I think—no, wait a minute! [ saw him coming in half an hour ago.”

  “Put me through to him, will you?” asked Rollison and sat back, beaming at Grice, who looked a little less mystified. Soon, a crisp voice sounded in Rollison’s ear and Rollison introduced himself with some circumspection.

  “Yes, Rollison,” said Cracknell, who carried much weight at Whitehall. “. . . What’s that? . . . Yes, it is quite true . . . Are you sure?”

  �
��I’m quite sure, sir,” Rollison assured him. “I think, with a little luck, we could see the end of it inside a week. The difficulty is that I’m so tied to the office.”

  “This isn’t some pet scheme of your own for which you want leave, is it?” demanded Cracknell, suspiciously.

  “I’m in the office of Superintendent Grice, of Scotland Yard,” Rollison told him. “He asked me to see him about this very business.”

  “I’ll do what I can to arrange for you to be assigned to it,” Cracknell promised.

  “Thanks very much,” said the Toff, warmly. “I take it that it is regarded seriously?”

  “Extremely so,” said Cracknell but there was an echo of laughter in his voice. “Why do you ask?”

  “If it’s a matter of urgency, I shouldn’t waste any time,” said Rollison.

  “You can consider yourself assigned to it,” said Cracknell and rang off; the last Rollison heard from him was the beginning of an explosive laugh.

  As Rollison replaced the receiver, Grice said: “One day, you’ll wheedle yourself into active service again, I can see it coming. Then what will we poor flatfoots do at Scotland Yard?”

  “Wheedle me back!” replied Rollison. “Grice, you couldn’t have done me a better service and Jolly will probably send you a congratulatory telegram! I am now working on this job in an official capacity and, while I am fully prepared to co-operate with the police, I must reserve the right to act as I think best in the interests of men and women of the services who, in their all-too-brief spells of leave, are being raddled with a fire-water sold under the name of whisky, and—”

  “That’s enough!” cried Grice. “Well, exactly how much do you know?”

  Rollison passed on the whole story. Grice made notes on a pad and, when Rollison had finished, they eyed each other thoughtfully. It was Grice who broke the silence.

  “Do you think it would be wrong to try to force the case in Whitechapel just yet?”

  “Yes. Don’t you?”

  “Probably,” admitted Grice, “although it can’t be left too long. We’ll have to get Gregson and the man who calls himself ‘Keller’ as soon as we can. Chumley has descriptions of them and is already hard at work.”

  “I doubt whether he’ll get them,” said Rollison. “My worry is—where is it distributed from in the West End? Have you found any store-places at all?”

  “One or two small ones,” said Grice. “It doesn’t appear to be delivered in large quantities, only a few dozen at a time. We’ve found seven or eight retail suppliers. All of them swear that they buy it legally and believe that it is ordinary stuff—the story is so circumstantial in every case that it seems as if the organisers use a formula.”

  “They’re not associated clubs, are they?”

  “No, they’re all quite independent.”

  “Then if they use a formula, it’s one which they’re told to use by the suppliers,” said Rollison. “What’s the story? The bottles of bad stuff were found among deliveries from the reputable companies.”

  “Yes?”

  “And the reputable companies know nothing about it, of course,” went on Rollison. “How long has it been worrying you?”

  “For the better part of six months.”

  “It all seems to have started about six months ago,” admitted Rollison, looking very thoughtful. “You remember that I told you that Irish dock-workers were concerned?”

  “Yes. I’ll look into that angle.”

  “Not a bad idea,” said Rollison. “Well, we’re making progress of a kind. The main trouble is that I’ve started working from the wrong angle. They may distribute it in small quantities but there appears to be a lot of it about. Given much thought to distribution?”

  “Yes,” said Grice.

  He did not enlarge and so gave Rollison the impression that he was holding something back. Rollison did not attempt to force any information but went on thoughtfully:

  “East Wharf might possibly be the distributing point as there’s a lot of quite legitimate stuff brought in—does any of it come from Eire, do you know?”

  “Some, yes,” said Grice cautiously. “But most Irish goods come in at the West coast ports. Some shipments come direct to London but if you’re thinking that the stuff is Irish whisky, you’re—”

  Rollison laughed.

  “Don’t insult the Irish distillers. But where are there as many illicit stills as in Ireland? If a manager or foreman of a wharf co-operated, it might be brought off the ships.”

  “There’s no evidence that it is and I think it’s made in England,” Grice said.

  “You’re probably right,” admitted Rollison. “However, supposing it is brought in at East Wharf, what happens to it then? It could be loaded straight on to the lorries and—”

  He paused.

  “Now what’s in your mind?” demanded Grice.

  “I was picturing a charming little scene at the wharf,” said Rollison. “A big Irishman ribbed an English docker who promptly called him a neutral and started a free fight. All without malice as far as I could see. But as soon as it had stopped—the foreman handled it well— the combatants were put on to loading the same lorry. They must have been in a big hurry to get the lorry loaded and off.”

  “Why?” asked Grice.

  “You know, you’re not really as dull as this! The obvious reason would be to get whatever they were loading en route before the police arrived. Police would be bound to arrive on the scene as soon as word of the accident reached them, wouldn’t they?”

  “Do you think East Wharf should be raided?”

  “Certainly not just now!” exclaimed Rollison. “If there’s anything in the idea, the stuff has been sent away and we’d only put them on their guard. You might care to find out if that was an Irish ship, though, and keep some eyes open when the next one comes in from Eire. A suggestion only!” he added, mildly.

  “I know all about your suggestions,” said Grice. “It’s a good one, anyhow.”

  “Thanks. Do you know your Sergeant Bray very well?”

  “Fairly well,” said Grice, cautiously.

  “Is he as hot-headed as he seems? I gathered that he made the arrest a little precipitately.”

  “He was right to act as he did and also right to take Craik to Divisional headquarters. Bray’s a good chap. He might have made a mistake but, if you’re asking me whether I propose to reprimand him for this, I’m not.”

  “I should hope not!” exclaimed Rollison. “Er—Chumley was spry, too, wasn’t he?”

  “Chumley is spry,” said Grice, quietly.

  Rollison raised an eyebrow.

  “Like that, is it? I was mistaken, I always thought he was one of the better men in the division but he’s showing unsuspected qualities of slyness, too. I suppose he wants to keep the glory in the Division?”

  Grice made no comment.

  “It’s a thousand pities that you can’t be frank, by reason of the rules and regulations,” Rollison remarked.

  Grice smiled and said gently:

  “There are no rules and regulations binding you!”

  “True,” admitted Rollison. “But then, I’m nearly always frank with you! It’s certainly a pity that we can’t make a completely fresh start in this business. Seeing that I am in on the ground floor, why not let me have my head without base suspicions of personal motives and dark whisperings about being unorthodox?”

  “In other words, will the police authorise you to continue to work your own way!”

  “Wrong,” murmured Rollison. “Will the police authorise the Military Authorities?”

  Grice was still smiling, in spite of his sunburn and his reticence, when Rollison left his office.

  Rollison felt very much more cheerful as he hurried to Gresham Terrace and regaled Jolly with the news.

  “And what will you do now, sir?” asked Jolly, obviously pleased.

  “I’ll see Cobbett,” said Rollison. “You’d better have a look round the clubs in the Mayfair are
a. Don’t be too obvious but try to find out whether Gregson has been an intermediary or our man with the big brown eyes. Failing either, try to find out who has been peddling it in this part of the world.”

  “Very good, sir,” said Jolly, who was used to attempting the impossible but never complained for Rollison never asked him to attempt what he would not try himself.

  Still in a good humour, Rollison left the flat before his man, remembering that he had not yet had dinner. He had missed it two nights running and decided that he could safely afford an hour at his club. He managed to get a single table and thus avoided conversation. Soon after nine o’clock, he was on his way to the home of Cobbett the crane-driver. There, he was told by a sharp-voiced, middle-aged woman—his mother—that Cobbett had not been in all day and she had no idea where he might be found if not at The Docker. When Rollison tried to get more particulars about her son she closed up completely. Did that mean she knew that Cobbett would be in trouble if she talked?

  He went to The Docker but Cobbett was not there.

  With veiled insolence, the barman told him that Cobbett had not been in all day and the blousy barmaid, who had once inspired Keller’s mob to attack a man who had waited for her after opening hours, did not even spare Rollison a glance. None of the customers appeared to recognise him.

  On the other side of the road, when he left, were three familiar-looking men and, further along, another three. They were plainclothes policemen, trying to look the part of dock-labourers. That was a mistake. Thoughtfully, he strolled towards Jupe Street and was near it when a police car turned the corner. In it, he saw Chumley.

  “So The Docker is going to be raided,” mused Rollison, and was smiling when he reached the hall.

  Kemp was reading in his little room. He put his book down and jumped up.

  “Billy the Bull’s been asking for you, Rolly.”

  “When?” asked Rollison.

  “He’s sent that bald-headed second round several times since five o’clock,” said Kemp. “I wouldn’t be surprised if—”

  Before he could finish the door opened and Billy the Bull’s second danced in, squeaked complainingly that he could not waste all day and demanded that Rollison should go with him. He talked shrilly and at length but, by winks, nods and asides, gave the impression that he was aware that he was taking part in a conspiracy of great importance. Rollison humoured him and not until they were out of Kemp’s hearing did the little man say: