The Toff And The Curate t-12

by John Creasey

  Rollison weighed the cosh in his hand and deliberated. Harris was staring fixedly from the stage; the name “Toff’ had affected him as much as it had Spike Adams. Only the heavy breathing of the prisoners broke the silence.

  Kemp looked from one to the other, incredulous.

  “All right,” Rollison said at last, “I’ll take your word this time but if you’ve lied to me, I’ll fix you. Don’t forget it. The police will be glad of a chance to put both of you inside,” he went on, turning to include Harris in his homily. “If Keller wants you to do any more of his dirty work, send word to me.”

  “Okay, mister!” Spike gasped.

  He scrambled to his feet and Harris jumped down from the stage and joined him. Rollison nodded towards the door and the men nearly fell over each other in their eagerness to get away. Harris closed the door carefully behind them.

  Kemp drew a deep breath.

  “Great Scott, Rollison! I’ve never seen anything like it!”

  Rollison smiled. “I hope you often will. They know we could land them in jail for a year and added to it they have a curious idea that I’m unbeatable and infallible.”

  “But that man’s face when he recognised you!”

  Rollison laughed.

  “Once upon a time someone started a legend about me and I’ve kept up the illusion ever since,” he said, lightly. “We’re making progress. We want to interview Mr Harry Keller as soon as we can: A curious business,” he added. “I think Adams told the truth when he said lie doesn’t know where Keller lives and that he’s not one of the mob. So Keller wanted to make quite sure that if things went wrong, no one could say much about what he’s up to.”

  “Can you see any sense in it?” demanded Kemp.

  “There is sense but no reason for it,” said Rollison. “Who first suggested that I might help?”

  “The Whitings,” said Kemp.

  “We really ought to go to see them,” said Rollison, glancing at his watch. “It’s half-past one, but—”

  “We can’t knock them up at this time of night!”

  “That won’t worry them,” said Rollison, confidently.

  “Look here!” said Kemp, “never mind the Whitings—why did you let those men go?”

  “Is that still worrying you?” asked Rollison. “They’ll run straight to Keller and tell him about me,” said Rollison. “It’s one thing to persecute a newcomer to the district—and there’s a peculiar idea that curates can’t hit back but Spike knows better now!—and another thing to operate against me. I know the East End and I’ve a lot of friends here. It will be interesting to see what happens when Keller gets to know I’m involved.”

  “I give up!” exclaimed Kemp.

  “Not you, you’ve only just started! Let’s see the Whitings.” Kemp protested half-heartedly but Rollison was firm. This time, no one followed them from the hall. The stars were still out and a breeze from the river made it cooler. Rollison walked leisurely and Kemp towered beside him, occasionally starting to speak but always thinking better of it. They were halfway down Little Lane, shining their torches on the numbers of the houses, when Kemp said abruptly:

  “I say, what about your man?”

  “He’ll be all right.”

  “But you were going to leave a message for him!”

  “He won’t be finished for another hour or more,” said Rollison. “If he should get back and find us gone, he’ll telephone my flat. Don’t worry about Jolly. What was the Whitings’ number?”

  “Forty-nine,” Kemp told him.

  “Forty-three-five-seven-nine,” said Rollison. “Here we are.”

  The house was one of a long, narrow terrace which, in daylight, looked dreary and dilapidated. There were no pavements in Little Lane and the road was cobbled. An odour of decay and stale cooking hung about the lane but there was no chink of light from any window, no sign of anyone awake.

  Rollison knocked sharply on the door.

  “I hope they don’t think it’s an awful nerve,” said Kemp.

  “I hope you think Craik’s worth the trouble,” said Rollison, tartly.

  “Oh—sorry!” Kemp made no further comment and Rollison knocked again but there was no answer.

  “Do they live here on their own?” asked Rollison.

  “There’s an old lady—Mrs Whiting’s mother—and three children,” said Kemp.

  “No boarders?”

  “I’ve never heard of any.”

  Rollison knocked again. The sound echoed along the street and faded into a brooding silence but brought no response. Rollison rattled the letter box, bent down and peered inside. A faint glow of light showed at the far end of the passage.

  “That’s peculiar,” he said. “Stay here, Kemp— don’t go away and don’t let anyone distract your attention.”

  “Where—” began Kemp but he spoke to the darkness, for Rollison had disappeared, soundlessly.

  Rollison hurried to the end of the lane then along Jupe Street to a narrow alley. There were tiny gardens here, back and front, for Jupe Street had been built when some measure of enlightenment had permeated Victorian minds and even East Enders had been allowed room in which to breathe.

  There was no gateway to the alley.

  Rollison counted the wooden gates as he passed, shining his torch until he reached Number 49. He put it out and opened a gate noisily. He left it open and walked with heavy tread for a few yards then switched off his torch and went on again stealthily, counting the houses by their roofs outlined against the starlit sky. He stopped at Number 47.

  He thought he heard voices.

  The back gate was open and he heard a man stirring—as if he were waiting inside the tiny yard and getting impatient. Soon a door opened and a sliver of light showed. It disappeared as the door closed.

  “Okay?” a man asked, softly.

  “I’ve scared the lights out of them,” said another, in a cultured voice which carried a hint of laughter. “They won’t go to church in a hurry!”

  Rollison stood in the doorway as the men approached, holding his torch in front of him. As they drew within a yard or two of him, walking side by side, he switched on the torch and the dazzling light brought them abruptly to a standstill.

  “And which of you is Mr Keller?” inquired Rollison, politely.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The Men Who Uttered Menaces

  “Don’t make the mistake of moving,” continued Rollison without a pause, “because I’ve brought a gun with me. Which of you is Keller?” he repeated.

  Neither of them moved. Probably they realised that if they doubled back into the house they would do little good; more likely, they were afraid that he really had a gun. The light of his torch showed their hands as well as their faces.

  The taller of the two was well-dressed and good-looking with short, dark hair and a heavy moustache. He was hatless and wore an open-necked shirt. Obviously he was the man with the cultured voice. The other, shorter and thick-set, had a pugnacious but not an evil face—he was very different from the ex-prize-fighter and Spike Adams. His large eyes stood the light better than his companion and he was the first to speak.

  “Who the hell are you?” His voice was rough but not Cockney.

  “A friend of Kemp,” answered Rollison.

  “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll tell Kemp to clear out,” growled the thick-set man. “He’s not wanted here.”

  “So I gathered when Spike Adams tried to beat him up,” said Rollison. “The Rev Kemp is tougher than you realise.”

  “I’ve warned him,” the man growled.

  “Are you Keller?”

  “Never mind who I am!”

  “I don’t think we understand each other,” said Rollison, mildly. “I’m helping Kemp who is here to stay. Anyone who tries to get rid of him will run into much more trouble than he expects.”

  “Anyone who helps Kemp will be lucky if he doesn’t get his neck broken,” said the thick-set man.

  Then, with
one accord, they jumped at him.

  Rollison was prepared for the rush. He switched off his torch, stepped to one side and shot out his foot. The simple method worked. The thick-set man fell heavily and the other tripped over him, gasping. Rollison drew away, not certain that the worst was over. The night’s silence was broken by the sound of footsteps approaching from both directions.

  He slipped into the yard of the house next door and stood by the gate. The men on the ground picked themselves up, muttering, as a newcomer drew up.

  “You okay?” he asked, hoarsely.

  “Yes,” grunted the thick-set man. “If I come across that man again, I’ll break his neck!” He uttered a stream of expletives as he dusted himself down while Rollison backed further into the yard and other men arrived.

  None of the newcomers saw him. He kept close to the wall, trying to estimate the chances of climbing into the next yard if they should start to search for him. In the darkness, climbing would not be easy but there were at least three newcomers and odds of five to one were too heavy.

  He crept further away, although he could hear their heavy breathing. There was a furtive air about them all and they spoke in whispers.

  “Who was he?” asked the man with the cultured voice.

  “Some fool who fancies himself,” muttered the other. “I didn’t think Kemp would ask any of his posh friends to come and help him. We’ll have to put a stop to that.”

  “I never see no one,” one of the newcomers said.

  “I think I seed him go Jupe Street way,” volunteered another.

  “He’s scared stiff,” said the man with the gruff voice. “Let’s get away.”

  “Oughtn’t we to look for him?” asked the man with the cultured voice.

  “On a night like this? Have some sense!”

  They moved off, two of the newcomers going ahead of the couple whom Rollison had met and the third following. Rollison waited until their footsteps had faded then pushed a hand through his hair, looking very thoughtful as he walked to the back door of the Whitings’ house and tapped.

  After a long pause, the door opened. A faint glow of light shone from another room. A thin man was outlined against it, but Rollison could not see his face.

  “W-what do you want?” His voice was unsteady.

  “If you’re Mr Whiting, I want to see you,” said Rollison. He pushed his way past and closed the door. He heard the hissing and popping of a lighted gas-jet and widened the doorway from which the light came. It shone on a weedy-looking young man with thin hair, pale features, a harassed expression.

  “Who-who is it, Erny?” asked a woman from another room, in a quavering voice. Are—are they back again?”

  “I don’t know,” muttered Erny Whiting. “I — No! They’re not!” His voice rose and his troubled expression cleared. “Why, it’s the—”

  “Hush!” urged Rollison.

  Whiting stood and gazed at him in silence while a little anxious-and-tired looking woman came from the other room. She stopped abruptly when she saw Rollison, a gleam of recognition in her eyes.

  “The others might be listening outside,” said Rollison, “I’ll make sure. You let Mr Kemp in—he’s at the front.”

  Mrs Whiting turned to obey after only a moment’s hesitation. Rollison went into the yard again but found no one. He returned to the house and was ushered into the tiny parlour. Kemp was inside, stooping slightly because the ceiling was so low. In an armchair in one corner sat a very old woman, her hair drawn tightly back from her forehead. Her lace was so thin that her skin was a mass of lines and wrinkles. She looked at Rollison with bright, beady eyes—both suspicious and wary.

  “Who is he?” she squeaked.

  “It—it’s Mr Rollison,” said Whiting, nervously. “I—I somehow didn’t think you would come, Mr Rollison.”

  “We can go on from there,” smiled Rollison, leaning against a piano which took up most of one wall. “Why didn’t you open the front door as soon as we knocked?”

  Whiting licked his lips.

  “They—the men told me not to.”

  “Do you know who they were?”

  “No, I’ve never seen them before,” answered Whiting. “They came about ten minutes before you—came the back way.” He licked his lips again. “They said we wasn’t to help Mr Kemp or go to the church—if we did, they said, they’d—” he stopped, tongue-tied.

  Rollison’s eyes held a steely glint.

  “The men who uttered menaces!” he murmured. “Whom did they threaten? Your children?”

  “Yes!” Whiting gasped.

  “We had to promise we wouldn’t help Mr Kemp!” Mrs Whiting cried, “we don’t want anything to happen to our children, Mr Rollison!”

  “Of course you don’t and nothing will,” Rollison assured her. “Why do they want to keep you away from church, Whiting? Do you know?”

  “They—they only just told us that,” said Whiting, “but I think I know why. I was—I was with Joe Craik,” he added with a nervous rush. “We was walking down to the hall together and two men bumped into us. They went off and Joe said they’d picked “is pocket but the only thing missing was his knife, he said, and he might have left that at his shop.”

  “Go on,” murmured Rollison.

  “Well, we hadn’t got much further on when three more were waiting for us, near the hall,” Whiting said, sending a troubled glance at the old woman in the corner, who clearly disapproved of his frankness. “They started leading off about Mr Kemp. It wasn’t fair, the things they said—it just wasn’t fair. I didn’t want any trouble but Joe answered back and before we knew where we were, they was on us. We had to hit back,” Whiting added, defensively. “The police come and one of them was on the pavement—I thought he’d knocked hisself out. Instead—”

  “He warned you, didn’t he?” squeaked the old woman in the corner. “He told you wot would ‘appen if you squealed!”

  “Be quiet, Ma,” pleaded Whiting.

  “He told you—”

  “Hold your tongue, mother!” Mrs Whiting swung round on the older woman, surprisingly sharp-tongued. “We don’t want any nonsense from you! It wasn’t right to promise not to see Mr Kemp. If it hadn’t been for you, Erny wouldn’t never have promised!”

  “If they was my children—”

  Rollison smiled at the old crone and moved towards her.

  “Nothing’s going to happen to the children, that’s a promise.” He surveyed her with his head on one side, compelling her to return his gaze. After a long pause, her expression relaxed; but her words were grudging.

  “If you ses so, I suppose that’s all right.”

  “It will be,” Rollison assured her and turned to Whiting. “Have you told the police anything yet?”

  “No,” said Whiting. “Joe told me to hop it, because we didn’t want no more trouble. It wasn’t until afterwards that I knew the chap on the ground was dead.”

  “Don’t you have nothing to do with the police!” protested the old woman.

  “They’ll have to hear the story,” Rollison said, “but it might be wise for you not to go into details, Whiting. Leave it to me, will you?”

  “I really ought—” Whiting began and then shrugged. “All right, Mr Rollison. But what shall I say if they come?”

  “Forget all about the first pair you met and just tell the truth about the fight,” answered Rollison. “Kemp, will you stay here for half an hour?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Keep the doors and windows shut,” Rollison said. “As soon as I’m back, everything will be all right’

  He knew that Kemp was bursting to ask questions but the curate showed admirable self-restraint. The old woman’s suspicious gaze was on Rollison as he went out of the room. He made sure that no one was about in the lane then walked towards the corner of the street and along Jupe Street to a telephone kiosk. Before entering, he waited, listening intently, but he heard nothing.

  Soon he was speaking to a man whose vo
ice sounded heavy with sleep and who complained bitterly about being disturbed in the middle of the night. Immediately Rollison gave his name, the sleepiness seemed to vanish and the protests might never have been uttered.

  “Why, Mr Ar, wot a pleasure! I never expected to ‘ear from you ternight, that’s a fact. Can I do anyfink for you, Mr Ar?”

  “Yes, Bill,” said Rollison, “there’s a family named Whiting, living at 49, Little Lane, off Jupe Street. They’ve three children. I want you to look after them.”

  “They in trouble?”

  “A Mr Harry Keller doesn’t like them,” said Rollison.

  There was no immediate response.

  He needed no more telling that Harry Keller meant something to Bill Ebbutt, who kept a pub in the Mile End Road and also ran a boxing gymnasium where many of the more promising boxers were trained and managed. The war had whittled down the number of young hopes but the older men still trained and some young men in reserved occupations went there regularly. Bill Ebbutt’s gymnasium was an unofficial club with hundreds of members, most of them connected with the ring, all well-trained and packing a pretty punch. No man who belonged to Bill’s “club’ dabbled in the more vicious types of crime. The police would have liked to interview some but even they admitted that members of the club were usually law-abiding.

  Bill broke his silence at last.

  “That’s all right, Mr Ar. I’ll look arter the kids. It’ll take a lot of men, mind yer—it might run you into a bit o’ money, too, because they won’t be able to do their ord’nary jobs while they’re watching.”

  “There’s no limit to expenses,” Rollison said.

  “That’s good of you, Mr Ar! P’raps you’ll come rahnd and see me when yer can?”

  “I will, before long,” promised Rollison. “How soon can you get men to Little Lane?”

  “Take me the best par’ve a coupla hours,” declared Bill.

  “Make it less if you can,” urged Rollison and rang off.

  Walking back to Little Lane, he mused on the conversation. What had been left unsaid, a great deal. Ebbutt had preferred not to speak about Keller on the telephone, which was curious, and had presented an urgent plea for Rollison to go to see him. Something about Keller obviously worried Bill.