The Toff And The Curate

by John Creasey

  “There’s no other word for Kemp! Had he found his right medium first, instead of coming to a wealthy parish, he might not have been one—perhaps one should have called him a misfit. It was obvious to me from the start that he would have little patience with orthodoxy. He is not yet old enough to realise that riches and sincerity can go together. Shall I say that he takes many of the passages in the scriptures too literally. ‘It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle—’ ” he paused.

  “Yes, I’ve heard the quotation,” said Rollison, drily.

  “Kemp read this as meaning that it was impossible for a rich man to behave as a Christian!” went on Straker. “He’s told me so to my face!” He chuckled. “I liked the young scamp, especially for that. Instead of resigning immediately, as I advised him to do, he decided to crusade amongst the vice dens of Mayfair!”

  “Oh,” said Rollison, heavily.

  “In fact, he got himself into disrepute by visiting unsavoury places and mixing with some of the more hectic young people,” said Straker. “I don’t know that he did himself any harm. Unfortunately, I think he was reproached rather too abruptly about it and refused to try to explain his point of view to the vicar. His point of view was simply that only by knowing what was happening could a bad thing be fought. I’m afraid he left the parish in a very tense atmosphere and took up the curacy of St Guy’s on the rebound. He went from one extreme to the other, genuinely sincere in wanting to find out how the rest of the world lived. I hope he hasn’t got into serious trouble?”

  “He’s giving plenty of people plenty of headaches,” said Rollison, and rose to go. “Do you think there is any likelihood of your being deceived about his good intentions?”

  “D’you mean, was he really sowing wild oats and using high-sounding motives to explain himself?” Straker asked.

  “Yes.”

  “It shouldn’t be ruled out as a possibility,” admitted Straker, “but had that been the case, he would have defended himself more—gone to a great deal of trouble to explain himself because his conscience would have been uneasy. As it was he felt quite clear in his conscience. Since others preferred to impute the worst of motives, he allowed them to imagine what they liked. I like to think that he was more frank with me than anyone else,” added Straker. “I often wondered if I could have been more tactful in my handling of him but I was convinced almost from the start that he was a misfit here. He has a better chance of finding his level and crusading where he is now.”

  Rollison put his head on one side.

  “Do you really think so?”

  Straker chuckled, urbanely.

  They parted on good terms and Rollison went to Mount Street where Isobel Crayne lived. She had not yet returned but he waited for less than ten minutes when she came in tempestuously, flinging her hat down as she entered the hall, calling ‘good morning’ to the maid who opened the door and then stopping, astonished, at the sight of Rollison in the drawing-room.

  “Why, Rolly—what a surprise!”

  “You’re very gay for so early in the morning,” Rollison said. “Have you been places?”

  “I’ve had a busman’s holiday!”

  “I knew you hadn’t been to Caterham,” said Rollison.

  Her smile disappeared and she looked at him in sudden alarm.

  “You haven’t told—”

  “I haven’t told a soul,” said Rollison. The door of the drawing-room was closed and she was looking at him with an intensity which made him begin to worry. But he went on lightly: i got the Caterham “phone number from your mother but was told that you hadn’t been to Caterham. It was not curiosity,” he added, quickly, “I wanted to talk to you—in fact, I want your help.”

  “About what?”

  “Ronald Kemp.”

  “Then you don’t know—” she began and broke off.

  Rollison watched her frown as she looked out of the window, obviously collecting her thoughts. The sun was striking through the glass and caught one side of her dark hair, filling it with lights. But for her snub nose she would have been really beautiful; and there was the freshness of youth about her which gave her so much vitality.

  “You’re uncanny, sometimes,” she said abruptly. “I suppose I’d better tell you. I went to St Guy’s last evening. It was my night off and Ronald had asked me to spend an evening with him. Rolly, don’t get ideas! I wasn’t sure what time I would get home, so I arranged to stay at a hostel in Mile End Road. We just talked. There’s something—magnificent!— about him, isn’t there?”

  “I once thought so,” agreed Rollison.

  “Once?” Her forehead wrinkled and she looked as if she could easily take offence, i don’t like the way you said that.”

  “I’m not going to make myself popular, I can see,” said Rollison, “Isobel, when you first came to see me about Kemp, did you know him at all?”

  She stared at him in astonishment.

  “Of course not! Rolly, what are you getting at?”

  “I knew this was going to be delicate,” said Rollison. “But I can’t believe you would try to put anything across me.”

  Isobel said quietly:

  “I don’t know what curious idea you have in your head, Richard, but I don’t like the insinuation. I don’t know why you should worry about it but the truth is that I had heard Ronald Kemp preach in Mayfair once or twice. Later, I heard a rumour that he had left the district in a huff and I had no idea where he was going. I certainly wouldn’t have come to you had I not thought that you might be able to help him. I had never met him personally.”

  Rollison’s eyes twinkled.

  “ ‘Richard’ being reproving! Isobel, dear, Ronald Kemp is in a bad spot. The police will probably suspect him of knowing more about the goings-on than he professes.”

  “Do you mean you suspect him?” Isobel demanded.

  “All I know is that there’s some circumstantial evidence against him,” Rollison assured her. “I want to try to make sure of his real motives before going any further. That’s where I want your help.”

  “I’ll have nothing to do with any trickery where he is concerned!” Isobel declared, hotly.

  “Not trickery,” protested Rollison. “A necessary stage in seeing that he doesn’t get clobbered for something he didn’t do.” He took her hand, “I’ve grown fond of Ronald Kemp and really want to help.”

  “What do you want me to do?” Isobel asked, reluctantly.

  “When will you be seeing him again?”

  “This evening.”

  “Tell him that at ten o’clock, in my flat, there is to be a meeting which will solve the whole mystery,” said Rollison. “But don’t let him know a minute before nine fifteen.”

  “I don’t think I like it,” said Isobel. “I think you ought to tell me more about what you’re planning.”

  He told her just what he planned, what Kemp’s West End reputation had been and just why he wanted to make sure that there was no justification for the canard. Isobel heard him out without an interruption and surprised him by speaking with a wealth of contempt.

  “You must be mad, even to think of such a thing!”

  “All I want is evidence that I am mad,” said Rollison, mildly.

  “And you think Ronald might come to your flat when he knows that everything is being settled tonight?”

  “I think it will help to find the truth about him,” said Rollison. “You’ll amplify that story, of course—say I’m interviewing a man, one man, who is going to name the chief rogue.”

  “It sounds beastly,” said Isobel.

  “Be your age!” exclaimed Rollison. “If Ronald’s mixed up in this affair, it’s necessary to find out for the sake of a lot of people— especially that of Isobel Crayne! If he isn’t, then it doesn’t matter a tinker’s curse.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” Isobel said, reluctantly.

  “You’ll do it? Good girl!”

  “I mustn’t tell him before a quarter-past nine you say
.”

  “No—nor much later.”

  “All right,” she said.

  She did not say that she might not see Kemp and Rollison assumed that they had a date. If Kemp were innocent, they would make a good couple.

  As soon as he reached the flat Rollison telephoned the office, to find that a message had already been received from Cracknell confirming his appointment to the official inquiry into the whisky racket.

  “And what have you in mind for me, today?” asked Jolly.

  “The same again,” said Rollison. “Try to trace the source of supply in the West End.”

  “And you will operate in the neighbourhood of St Guy’s, sir?”

  “Can you think of a better hole?” asked Rollison.

  He was at Bill Ebbutt’s gymnasium just after half-past twelve but nothing of interest had come in. Ebbutt’s men were keeping a watch on the Whitings. Next he saw Kemp in one of the church halls, putting it straight after the police search. He saw the Yard men whom he had asked Grice to send to follow Kemp; so that was all right. He went on to Craik’s shop, which was crowded with customers, then visited East Wharf where work was going on apace, unloading another cargo.

  Owen came across to him.

  “Do you know anything, Mr Rollison?”

  “No more than you,” said Rollison.

  “I wish I could help,” said Owen. “What’s it about? I might be able to strike something if I knew more about it.”

  “I don’t see what you can do,” Rollison said, “except tell me what happened to the goods you take off the ships?”

  “Most of it’s taken to the factories waiting for it,” Owen told him. “Some of it goes into warehouses. Why, Mr Rollison?”

  “How are the contents checked? I mean, are the cases opened here or are they sent off without being opened.”

  “Oh, they’re all marked,” said Owen. “I—my stripes! You don’t think there’s any smuggling going on?”

  “Could there be?”

  “If anything got past me, I’d tear my shirt!” declared Owen. “I don’t think it’s likely. The Port Authority police haven’t warned me, anyhow.”

  “Will you keep a careful look-out?” asked Rollison.

  Owen assured him he would, giving the impression that he was genuinely anxious to help.

  Rollison was deliberating on his next move when a fair-haired youngster, bare-footed and dressed in a grubby singlet and patched flannel shorts, came racing towards him. The cobbles did not appear to hurt his feet.

  “Mr Ar, Mr Ar!” he called and came to a standstill in front of the Toff. “Mr Ar, Bill ses will you “phone yon man? He ses you’d know who I mean.”

  “I do, thanks,” said Rollison, gave him sixpence and went to a telephone kiosk and called Jolly.

  “I’m very glad you’ve come through so quickly, sir. I have discovered Gregson’s West End address.”

  “That’s good work,” said Rollison. “Where is it?”

  “The Daisy Club, in Pond Street,” answered Jolly. “I saw him going in and a little questioning of a cleaner elicited the fact that the man whom we know as Keller is also a frequenter of the club. Another thing, sir—a bottle of the—er—firewater was delivered by special messenger this morning.”

  “A bottle?” asked Rollison. “Who on earth—” and then he chuckled. “Oh, yes, I asked one of the girls at the office to buy me a bottle. Any note to say which club it came from?”

  “There is a sealed note accompanying it,” said Jolly.

  “Open it, will you?” said Rollison.

  After a pause, Jolly spoke again.

  “It is signed: ‘Mabel Bundy, Sergeant,’ sir, and” — there was the slightest unsteadiness in Jolly’s voice— “it says that the bottle was bought at the Daisy Club, as requested.”

  “Have you tried it?” asked Rollison.

  “I did venture to taste it, sir. I think it is exactly the same brand as that which you brought from Craik’s shop.”

  “So all things point to the Daisy Club,” said Rollison, with satisfaction. “Telephone my office, thank Sergeant Bundy for me, then come along to the Daisy Club.”

  “Very good, sir,” said Jolly.

  Rollison walked to Whitechapel Tube Station.

  There was a faint doubt in his mind for, just as everything had once pointed to The Docker and the church halls, it seemed that they were now pointing to the Daisy Club. But this time there seemed to have been no effort on anyone’s part to make him pay attention to the place. The purchase of a bottle of the whisky from the club by Sergeant Mabel Bundy was quite unconnected with Jolly’s discovery and appeared to have been a lucky stroke.

  Pond Street was a dingy thoroughfare off Shaftesbury Avenue. ‘The Daisy Club, Secretary F. Legge’, was written on a varnished board nailed to the porch at the foot of a flight of narrow stairs which were fitted with hair-carpet. Jolly was at the far end of the street and Rollison walked to meet him.

  It was then that he received the biggest shock he had yet had in Vaffaire Kemp.

  In the doorway of a shop, out of sight until he passed it, two plainclothes men were standing. There was nothing unusual in seeing Yard men in Pond Street but these were the two men whom, not long before, he had seen outside Kemp’s hall.

  “What is it, sir?” asked Jolly, as he drew up.

  “Kemp’s shadows. They might have been given a new assignment,” said Rollison, “but I doubt it.”

  They walked past the two Yard men towards the Club, Rollison on edge in case Kemp was upstairs.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The Curate At The Daisy Club

  No one was on the first floor landing.

  Rollison reached it just ahead of Jolly. He looked at three doors facing him and another flight of stairs. He listened at each of the doors but heard nothing. Jolly, who had gone ahead, stood at the top of the next flight, beckoning. As Rollison reached him, he heard voices.

  One was quite unmistakable.

  “You know very well I don’t!” growled Ronald Kemp.

  He was speaking in one of two rooms leading from the landing. The words ‘Daisy Club’ were written on the door and there was no other notice. The closed door looked flimsy. Rollison stepped closer, standing on one side with Jolly on the other.

  The voice of Gregson came next and Rollison caught Jolly’s eye. He hated the implications in Kemp’s visit but forced himself to listen.

  “Please yourself,” said Gregson. “You may—”

  Footsteps sounded from downstairs. Rollison heard them and turned abruptly—and, on the lower landing, he saw the peeling face of Superintendent Grice. He was taken so much by surprise that he missed Gregson’s next words but the shrill ringing of a telephone bell cut them short.

  Grice reached the landing.

  Gregson said something in a harsh voice; then there was silence in the room.

  “Hallo, Rolly!” said Grice with remarkable heartiness, “I wondered if you’d be here!” He stepped forward and rapped on the door. There was no response—just utter silence.

  “You shouldn’t have done that,” Rollison whispered. “They’ve been warned.”

  The door opened abruptly and Gregson stood on the threshold. Behind him was Kemp; ‘Keller,’ by the window was a third man who held an automatic pistol. ‘Keller’s’ right hand was in his pocket.

  “I shouldn’t use those guns,” said Grice, mildly.

  Gregson swung round on Kemp, his face livid. The curate was staring, as if taken completely unawares.

  “You double-crossing swine, you’ve brought the police. Why, I’d like to cut your throat!”

  “That’s enough,” said Grice.

  Then Keller put a bullet between them and, as they backed away involuntarily, he and Gregson rushed out of the room. Rollison put out his foot. Gregson jumped over it, flinging out his hand and catching Rollison on the side of the head. That alone would not have been enough to put Rollison out but the door opposite opened and two other men app
eared, both of them carrying coshes. Almost before he knew what was happening Rollison was in the middle of a furious fight, most of the time keeping off savage blows. He thought Kemp was in the thick of it, too. Grice was stretched out on the floor and Gregson and ‘Keller’ had escaped.

  Then the fighting stopped.

  Jolly had one of the men gripped powerfully and unable to move and, inside the room, Kemp had knocked the other gunman out. Kemp was looking down at his victim and Rollison straightened up and smoothed down his coat.

  “What the devil is going on?” demanded Kemp.

  “Don’t you know?” demanded Rollison gruffly.

  “I don’t! I—”

  Grice, whom Rollison turned to help to his feet, interrupted him. It was not often that Grice looked angry but he did now and his voice held a harsh note.

  “I think you know quite enough, Mr Kemp. What are you doing here?”

  “I had a telephone call—” began Kemp.

  “I see,” sneered Grice. “You had a telephone call asking you to come to the Daisy Club this morning. You’d no idea what you were wanted for—you are just the innocent victim of a hoax?”

  Kemp’s face drained of its colour.

  “That is what happened,” he said, coldly.

  “I shall take a lot of convincing.”

  “If you prefer not to believe me, that is your affair,” said Kemp, turning to Rollison. “Do you know this man?”

  “He’s Superintendent Grice of New Scotland Yard,” Rollison said drily.

  “I see that the manners of the police are alike from headquarters downwards,” said Kemp, bitingly.

  Grice ignored the rudeness.

  “I have a number of questions to ask you, Mr Kemp, and will be glad if you will come with me. I am not at this juncture making any charge against you but you should be warned that anything you say may be used in evidence.”

  Kemp stared at him, coldly, then swung round on Rollison.

  “Are you going to let him do this?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t stop him. But you needn’t go, you know, although if you refuse, he may prefer a charge.”

  From amazement, Kemp’s expression became one of anger. He looked as if he could hardly keep his fists to himself.