The Toff And The Curate

by John Creasey

  “Billy said I wasn’t to tell anyone where we was goin’, Mr Ar, ‘sept you.”

  “Where are we going?” asked Rollison, patiently.

  “St Guy’s hall, near East Wharf,” answered the bald-headed man. “Billy and me have bin watchin’ it, like you said. Took over at three o’clock, we did. A coupla ruffians—” he brought the word out contemptuously “—tried to start a fight. A fight, wiv Billy!”

  “They couldn’t have known Billy,” said Rollison, quickening his pace. The little man danced by his side and soon they were within sight of the wharf. There was no sign of activity for the ship had been cleared of its cargo. The WVS canteen was not there and the wooden hall, with its flimsy wire fence wrecked by the previous night’s incident, looked small and lonely against the high walls of warehouses some distance behind it.

  Billy the Bull was pacing up and down.

  “I’m glad you’ve come, Mr Ar,” he said, worriedly, “I dunno that I like it. Bill Ebbutt tole me that I wasn’t ter come too close an’ wasn’t ter look inside but if you arst me, it’s time someone did.”

  “Why?” asked Rollison, hurrying towards the hall.

  “Two fellers tried to start a fight,” said Billy, “but I wouldn’t ‘ave nothing to do wiv’ them, Mr Ar.” He was very serious. “Soon’s I looked rahnd, there was another couple on the other side’ve the “all but I never seed them go in. Do yer fink we’ve found sunnink?”

  “It wouldn’t surprise me,” said Rollison.

  It took him five minutes to pick the lock of the hall, under the admiring gaze of Billy and his companion. He pushed open the door and stepped cautiously inside but there was no need for caution. The only occupant was Cobbett. He had been strangled and his crumpled body lay in the middle of the floor.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The Endeavours Of Chumley

  Presh from what had proved a fruitless raid on The Docker, where all the liquor had been legally obtained and where the occupants had openly derided the police, Chumley went to the scene of Cobbett’s murder. He was not in a good mood and was still sore with the Toff. He asked questions, browbeat Billy the Bull, seemed to regret that there was evidence that Rollison had not been there alone and said that he proposed to pull the hall down, if necessary, to find what was hidden there.

  “Nothing’s hidden here,” said Rollison. “If there were, they wouldn’t have murdered Cobbett on the premises.”

  “Even you might be wrong,” said Chumley, sarcastically.

  But there was nothing hidden in the hall nor beneath it; there was nothing to indicate that it had been used as a storage place for whisky or other contraband. The back door had not been forced; Cobbett’s murderers had used a key. There were no fingerprints, nothing that might serve as a clue and Billy the Bull could give no reliable description of the men he had seen.

  Chumley will try the other places now, thought Rollison, and one was bound to yield results. He stayed close to Chumley all the evening as they went from hall to hall. Kemp joined them, giving permission for the search freely. No one had the chance to tell Rollison of Craik’s advice to Cobbett.

  Nor did Kemp talk of his visitor.

  There was nothing at the first hall.

  By the time they reached the second Craik, Whiting and several other members of St Guy’s had arrived with a crowd of sightseers, some of whom jeered and some looked pale and worried. The comb-out of the East End was proceeding fast; suspects were being detained and questioned.

  Rollison was prepared to find the store of whisky at the hall and was wondering what his best course would be afterwards but nothing was found.

  Kemp was relieved. Chumley was obviously disappointed. Craik was smiling, his lips quivering like a rabbit’s; that might also have been with relief.

  Chumley turned away from a sergeant and said audibly:

  “Someone’s tipped them off, that’s what’s happened.”

  He looked meaningly towards Rollison who ignored him and walked off with Kemp. As they neared Jupe Street, Kemp asked:

  “Do you think they were warned, Rollison?”

  “Possibly,” conceded Rollison, “but if there were stores, of the whisky in any of the halls earlier today, or even yesterday, I don’t think I hey could have been moved without a trace. There’s something I’ve missed,” he went on. “It’s something fairly obvious and it concerns you. Be more careful than ever.”

  “I suppose you couldn’t be wrong in thinking—”

  “Cobbett was killed because he might have talked too freely—he was badly scared last night,” said Rollison. “O’Hara was killed for the same reason. You might be next on the list.”

  “But what could I talk about?”

  “Presumably nothing, yet. It’s something you might come across,” said Rollison. He arranged for Grice to send two Scotland Yard men to watch Kemp as unobtrusively as possible then returned to Gresham Terrace where Jolly found him, an hour later, in a mood not far removed from dejection. As the valet entered, Rollison looked up.

  “Any luck?” he demanded.

  “Not yet, sir,” began Jolly, “I . . .”

  “I’ve been making you waste your time and I’ve wasted my own,” Rollison said and he went into some detail. “I thought I had one thing sewn up and when the bag was opened there wasn’t even a rabbit inside. We’re being played for suckers, Jolly!”

  “I can’t believe that, sir.”

  “I can and do,” said Rollison. “I’ve reached the point where I think Kemp might be being persecuted simply to distract attention from the real purpose. Note how carefully everything has been covered up. Keller—and a shadowy individual who might be Keller. Gregson taking orders one night, giving them the next. The Docker deliberately thrust into our faces—and nothing gained from the pub.”

  “As you expected,” murmured Jolly.

  “Yes but I did expect something from the halls.”

  Jolly said, quietly: “O’Hara and Cobbett were murdered, sir. I hardly think anyone would go to the lengths of murder in order to throw out a smokescreen, if I may use the allegory. Both of those men could have betrayed the leaders. That is certain.”

  “Ye-es. Find their murderers, find the— Jolly!”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Did I make a mistake in confiding in that foreman, Owen? Who else knew that I suspected Cobbett?”

  Jolly eyed him steadily, seemed about to speak and then changed his mind and suggested that he should make some coffee.

  “You stay where you are,” said Rollison. “What were you going to say?”

  “I don’t really think—” began Jolly.

  “Out with it,” insisted Rollison. “I don’t want concern for my feelings. If I’ve missed an obvious possibility, tell me. I’m beginning to think I have.”

  “I don’t think so, sir,” said Jolly, looking troubled, in fact, I feel hardly justified in mentioning what sprang to my mind but, since you insist, I will tell you. You might have been wrong in confiding in Owen but he was not the only man whom you told of your suspicions of Cobbett.”

  “Now, come! Chumley may be feeling sour and might have tumbled to it, but—”

  “I’m not thinking of the police, sir,” said Jolly, still ill-at-ease, “and I’m not thinking seriously of Mr Kemp but you did let him know that you considered last night’s accident might have been an attempt to murder him, didn’t you? And, if the mission halls were being used but were emptied in a hurry, it means that there was a leakage of information.”

  “Oh, no,” said Rollison, blankly. “Our fighting parson? Now, be serious, Jolly!”

  He neither expected nor hoped to silence his man; in fact his words constituted a challenge and probably nothing else would have encouraged Jolly to explain his reasoning. Nettled, Jolly said:

  “The truth is, sir, that we are in danger of surrendering to sentiment which prevents us from considering Mr Kemp as a suspect. After all, the trouble started six months ago—” Rollison whistled
. “By George!”

  “That was when Mr Kemp first took up his position at St Guy’s,” continued Jolly, firmly. “Moreover, although any one of a number of people might have given warning that you thought the halls might be used to store the whisky, only Mr Kemp and Owen could have known that you proposed to visit Cobbett. And there is no reason at all for imagining that Owen knew anything about your suspicions of the halls.”

  “The only man who always rings the bell is Kemp,” said Rollison, impressed in spite of himself.

  “It is a fact, sir,” said Jolly, reluctantly. “I don’t know that I would have thought of it myself, except for a rather strange discovery I made this evening. I visited several of the less respectable night-clubs and at one of them an attendant was extremely impertinent—”

  He paused but Rollison kept silent.

  “He went so far as to say, sir,” said Jolly, feelingly, “that I looked a sanctimonious hypocrite. Those were his actual words. He added that he did not want any more visitors who wore their collars the wrong way round during the day. In the end he apologised and told me that some seven or eight months ago a youthful clergyman was a frequent visitor. I described Mr Kemp.”

  Jolly stopped.

  “And the description fitted?” asked Rollison.

  “I’m afraid it did, sir,” said Jolly. “Naturally it set up a train of thought, so I made other inquiries. I learned that Mr Kemp held a curacy at one of the Mayfair churches, before he went to St Guy’s.” When Rollison still did not speak, he went on almost appealingly: i did say that our sentiments had blinded us to the possibility, didn’t I, sir? In spite of what I learned, I was—I am!—reluctant to think that the circumstances are anything more than coincidental. Aren’t you, sir?”

  Rollison did not answer.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Help From A Lady

  After some minutes of silence Jolly, looking deeply concerned, as if moved by the expression on Rollison’s face, moved restlessly and asked:

  Are you feeling all right, sir?”

  Rollison bestirred himself, lit a cigarette and said:

  “Yes. Make that coffee, will you?”

  He sat back in an easy chair, smoking, his eyes narrowed towards the ceiling. He did not stir until Jolly came in, placed the tray on a small table and turned to go.

  “Bring a cup for yourself,” said Rollison.

  “Thank you, sir.” Jolly returned with cup and saucer and Rollison watched while he poured out. On such occasions, it was not Jolly’s habit to sit on the edge of the chair—if Rollison suggested a drink together then Jolly rightly assumed that he did not want to stand oil ceremony. When Jolly was sitting back and stirring his coffee, Rollison appeared to relax.

  “You’re quite right,” he said, with a fainl smile. “Kemp is the obvious suspect Number One—a shattering realisation. I should have remembered that Isobel Crayne told me that she had heard him preach in Mayfair. Bui unless I am badly mistaken, he is developing a fondness for Miss Crayne. Both of them stood in the way of the crane-load last night and both appeared to be in equal danger. On the other hand, if he were expecting it he would have known which way to jump. A quick eye and a quick hand—he could have dodged to one side with her at the last moment and thus lent the utmost credence to the apparent fact that he was nearly a victim. I would probably have been killed and saved a lot of trouble. Even if I escaped, I would be disinclined to suspect Kemp whatever the indications. The accident might even have been planned without any thought that I might be present, solely to make the police and me look anywhere but at Kemp.”

  “It is so, sir,” said Jolly. “But—”

  “If that’s the truth, he had me on a piece of string,” Rollison interrupted. “He waited until the last moment to give me a chance of pushing them aside. An unsung hero! The truth is, he appeared to have no more warning than I. I don’t remember vividly but he gave inc the impression of being petrified as he saw I lie thing coming towards him. Good acting, perhaps.”

  “We mustn’t take it for granted that he is involved,” began Jolly, only to be interrupted again.

  “We aren’t taking anything for granted.” Rollison drank half of his coffee and put the cup down. “I’m worried, Jolly—apart from the shattering possibility that Kemp’s involved and the consequent possibility that I have been completely taken in, it’s a very ugly situation.”

  “In what way, sir?”

  “If you’ve discovered that Kemp was once a frequenter of night clubs, don’t you think the police know all about it? They must have. And they’ve been very clever,” he added ruefully, “Grice was even more crafty than Chumley.” When Jolly looked mystified, Rollison went on: “Chumley has persistently refused to admit that I was interested primarily in Kemp. Grice emphasised the point but both of them have lured me into being more than ordinarily emphatic— "Kemp," said I, "only Kemp! Nothing but Kemp!" If Grice thinks as you do and remembers hearing that from me, isn’t he going to assume that I really started from Kemp in the West End and am trying to pull the wool over his eyes?”

  “I suppose he is,” admitted Jolly, reluctantly.

  “Of course he is! So, if Kemp knows nothing of it he’s being shot at from both sides—by

  “Gregson-Keller as well as by the police. Of the two, the police are more dangerous because Kemp would have the devil of a job to live down even a temporary detention. Remember how one affected Craik! Whereas, if Kemp does know—” he broke off, standing up abruptly. “I can’t believe that he does!”

  “I can hardly bring myself to believe it,” murmured Jolly. “But the evidence—”

  “Yes, I know. And how clever it would be!” Rollison went to the telephone and dialled a number. “Hallo,” he said at last, “is Miss Isobel Crayne in, please? . . . Yes, I’ll hold on.” In a few moments, however, he was disappointed for Isobel was spending the night with friends in Caterham. After some trouble he got the number of the friends but, when he put a call through, he was told that there must be some mistake, Isobel had not been there.

  “Curious,” commented Rollison, thoughtfully.

  “What did you propose to do, sir?” asked Jolly.

  “Get help from Miss Crayne,” said Rollison, cryptically.

  “Do you propose to do anything about the man Owen?” Jolly appeared disinterested in Isobel’s non-appearance at Caterham.

  “I think we’ll murmur a word into the ears of the police about Owen,” Rollison said. “There’s no reason why we should not be co-operative.”

  Grice was not at the Yard but an alert sergeant took his message and promised to see that Owen’s record was investigated. Satisfied and apparently in a better humour, Rollison went to bed.

  He woke just after seven and was in his bath before Jolly made tea. At nine o’clock he telephoned Isobel again, to be told that she was not expected home until eleven o’clock. At nine fifteen, as he was about to leave the flat, Grice telephoned and wanted to know more about Owen.

  “I can’t tell you any more,” said Rollison, “except that I told him I thought Cobbett might have been paid to make that mistake with the crane. Since Cobbett was murdered, Owen becomes an obvious suspect. The moment I realised that, I telephoned you.”

  “The very first moment?” asked Grice, sceptically.

  “Yes,” said Rollison, “I’m getting trustful, aren’t I? Have you learned anything during the night?”

  “No, there’ve been no developments here,” said Grice.

  Rollison rang off and went out. He called on an old friend, the vicar of a Mayfair church, and asked him what he knew of Ronald Kemp. He did not expect to see a frown cross the parson’s good-natured face.

  “What has he been doing?” asked the parson.

  “Trying to put the East End to rights in a hurry,” said Rollison. “Did you hear about his fight?”

  “What fight?” The vicar was amused when Rollison told him but quickly frowned again. “It isn’t out of character with Kemp, Rolly, and y
et—well, I hesitate to talk too freely. I suppose I can speak in complete confidence?”

  “Yes,” said Rollison and added deliberately: “Either Kemp is in serious trouble or else he’s a very dangerous young man.”

  “I’ll tell you what I know,” the Vicar promised.

  Kemp had been the curate at a neighbouring church. He was a promising preacher and, to all appearances, sincere in all he said. Then rumours spread, saying that he was a frequenter of nightclubs and that he did not behave as might have been expected of him. He was warned. He gave no explanation but continued his night-club visits and was eventually taken to task by his Bishop, a scholarly man who might well have little patience with the follies of youth.

  “A pedant?” asked Rollison.

  “And a theologian,” said the Vicar. “But I think I am justified in saying that he’s out of touch with the modern trend of Christianity. Perhaps another man would have had a greater influence on Kemp. In fact the discussion became heated and Kemp resigned his curacy immediately.”

  “Offering no explanation?” asked Rollison.

  “Not to my knowledge,” said the Vicar. “But there is a man who might be able to give you more information. I’m really telling you what he has told me.”

  Rollison left, very thoughtful indeed, to visit a Mr Arthur Straker, a wealthy member of Kemp’s Mayfair church. The name seemed familiar but Rollison did not place it at once.

  The man was an urbane, pleasant individual who received Rollison at breakfast in a luxury flat near Hyde Park. Rollison accepted a cup of coffee and explained why he had called. Straker looked intrigued.

  “Is that young rebel making trouble again?”

  “Rebel?” echoed Rollison.