The Toff and the Deadly Priest

by John Creasey

  “In what way, sir?”

  “If you’ve discovered that Kemp was once a frequenter of nightclubs, 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 nonappearance 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 cooperative.”

  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 anymore,” 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 yet – 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 nightclub 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.

  “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 happens 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, barefooted 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.