John Creasey - The Toff And The Curate

“There’s some raw stuff about,” declared Bill Ebbutt. “You should ‘ave stayed thirsty until you arrived ‘ere, Mr Ar—I don’t sell poison.” He grinned as well as he could. His face was a mass of bruises, black and blue and purple, and he was obviously in great discomfort. “How’s the Rev?”

“A black eye apart, he’s all right.”

“Bless ‘is heart! Will you ‘ave a drink?” asked Ebbutt

“No, thanks, that one was enough for tonight!” Rollison shuddered, realistically. “Is much hooch sold?”

“There’s been one or two fellers in pitchin’ the tale—you know ‘ow it goes. They’ve got ‘old of a few dozen bottles orf someone who’s gone bankrupt—but if you bought the stuff, you’d soon go broke all right! The samples is all right, sunnines, sunnines they gives you a spot’ve the real poison.”

“Can you remember any of the salesmen?”

Bill Ebbutt began to toy with his fleshy jowl. In a very sober voice, he answered:

“Maybe I could. Are you on to sunnink?”

“I might be but I don’t want your boys to know about it.”

“S’very thoughtful of yer,” said Ebbutt. “Very thoughtful indeed. Bootleg liquor, is it? It could be big.” He closed his eyes in an effort to recall who had tried to sell him the stuff and finally opened them and said hurriedly:

"One was a little Irish feller, a proper Kelly. I dunno his name. The other was one o’ these eddicated types, all smiles. I soon sent ‘im off wiv’ a flea in ‘is ear. Tell yer what, Mr Ar—if anyone else comes peddling it, I’ll buy a dozen an’ see what I can find out.”

“Good idea, Bill!” said Rollison. “This educated fellow—what was he like?”

“Tall-as-you-are-dark-suit-good-looker-clean-shaved-round-erbaht-thirty-five. That do yer, Mr Ar?”

“Wonderful!” said Rollison. “You’ve described the man I have in mind. Have you seen him about lately?”

“Nope.”

“Will you find out if he’s been to any of the other pubs?”

“Yep. If they’ve bought the stuff, they won’t talk—if they ‘aven’t, they’ll tell me.”

The description of ‘Keller’s’ educated companion clinched one thing; the gang was peddling illicit whisky. From the taste of Craik’s sample, Rollison thought it was probably made from illicit stills. There was a great deal of similar stuff on sale, especially at the flashier clubs, and members of the armed services bought more of it than anyone else.

“I think it’s time I saw the Yard,” Rollison decided, standing on a corner and watching the trams pass by, noisy yet ghostly with their faint lights. There were very few cars or other vehicles, except an occasional bus. He strolled towards Whitechapel Station and, as he neared it, a taxi began to move from the curb.

Rollison hailed it, quickly. The driver pulled up.

“Where to?” he demanded. “I’m on me way to me garage, can’t go far.”

“Scotland Yard,” ordered Rollison.

The pavement was filled with people walking slowly to and fro and some of the shadows seemed to be sinister. He did not think he had been followed but, if he had, then ‘Keller’ would soon know where he was going.

The interior of the cab was very dark and the driver started off too soon.

“Be careful!” exclaimed Rollison—and then stopped short for a hand gripped his wrist and another closed over his mouth and he was dragged into the cab as the door banged. The cab moved off at a rattling pace and Rollison, almost suffocated by the pressure on his mouth, could hardly move.

“Going to Scotland Yard, are you,” said the man with the cultured voice.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Unexpected Journey

“Keep still!” the man said and struck Rollison across the face. He had released his grip and Rollison was trying to get himself more comfortable. The scratch on his leg troubled him and he was half-kneeling, half-lying, across the legs of the two occupants of the taxi. He could just see their faces, pale in the darkness.

Soon, he managed to ease his leg and stopped moving.

“That’s better,” the man said. “You’ve made a mistake this time, Rollison. You aren’t going to Scotland Yard.”

“Be careful, Gregson!” said the other who was the self-styled Keller. “He might try to jump out.”

“He won’t take the risk,” said Gregson, confidently. “Sit on one of the tip-up seats, Rollison. Don’t forget that we mean business. If you should meet with a nasty accident—well, you wouldn’t know much about it.”

Groping in the darkness, Rollison pulled a seat down and sat on it. He had not recovered enough to strike out at the others; he doubted whether he would be wise to. Their confidence now was as great as it had been at the flat with better reason.

Gregson said:

“I’ve got a shot of morphia here, Rollison; if you get funny you’ll have it and you won’t wake up again. This is your last chance, if you behave yourself.”

Rollison forced himself to reply:

“Accommodating of you. You’re well-equipped, aren’t you? Am I going to hear more about my own back-yard?”

“That’s enough of that!” snapped ‘Keller.’

He was keeping in the background, the role of spokesman had been switched; Rollison wondered who was really the leader.

He should have been prepared for such an attack. Had the taxi been waiting, he would have wondered whether it had been there fortuitously but, as it had been moving away after dropping a fare, he had not thought twice about it. The incident had been very well-planned.

The only consolation lay in the fact that they still seemed disposed to reason.

The taxi was driving through the back streets of the East End. It had turned round outside the station and was heading further east; he thought they were near the docks. He saw an occasional passer-by from the glow of a cigarette in the darkness. His breathing was easier and he was beginning to feel more capable of tackling the situation.

“You aren’t feeling so clever, are you?” sneered Gregson. “You think you’re a lot smarter than you are, Rollison. If there was anything in your reputation, you wouldn’t have fallen for this trick.”

Rollison said heartily: i couldn’t agree more!”

The man exclaimed “What?” and fell silent. The taxi was going over a cobbled surface which was a further proof that they were in the dockside area.

“You’d better agree with me again,” Gregson said. “You’ve gone far enough. Who told you about the whisky?”

“Whisky?” ejaculated Rollison.

“Come on, you know all about that,” said Gregson.

“Don’t you know about it?”

“Gregson, he—” began ‘Keller.’

“I didn’t know it was a whisky racket,” declared Rollison and then went on in a wondering voice: “I thought it was something big!” He gave a hollow laugh and wondered if he were overdoing it. There was a startled silence, followed by an oath from Keller.

“Then what the hell are you after?”

“I’m simply helping Kemp,” said Rollison, truthfully.

“You’re helping that—” Keller broke off, with an exasperated note in his voice. “He’s been fooling us,” he growled. “We needn’t have worried about him.”

“Who’s worried?” asked Gregson but he sounded uneasy. “All right, so you didn’t know. We hijacked a few bottles of booze,” he went on, too quickly. “We thought you knew about it.”

Rollison said ruefully: “I could do with a small crate myself.”

The taxi came to a standstill as he spoke.

Any hopes of breaking away were dashed at once for the door was opened by a man outside. As he climbed out, Rollison’s wrist was gripped and he saw other shadowy figures crowding round. The man already holding him took a grip on the back of his neck and pushed him forward. He stumbled over a doorstep and along an unlighted passage: there was a faint glow of light at the far end.

“Stop, cully,” ordered his captor.

He stopped. The front door closed and a light was switched on. Three men were in the passage, besides ‘Keller’ and Gregson. They were characteristic East Enders of the tougher breed.

The passage had green distempered walls, the floor was of unstained boards and it looked like part of a warehouse. Soon Rollison was in an office which might have been that of any business firm; his eye was caught by a fine Mirzapore carpet with a round hole in the middle with its edges bound.

Gregson pushed past him and sat at a roll-top desk. Keller also sat down and one of the men stood by the door; the others went out. Gregson, his handsome face clear-cut beneath the light from an unshaded lamp, stared at him, tight-lipped. ‘Keller’s’ brown eyes were narrowed and he seemed much more on edge than the other.

“Well, Rollison?” Gregson spoke at last. “Are you going to be sensible about this?”

“That depends what you call sensible,” said Rollison.

“It’s none of your business. Kemp’s all right now, we couldn’t run him out of the district if we tried, so we won’t waste our time trying.” Apparently he took it for granted that Rollison had assumed the crane incident to be an accident. “You’ve done what you started out to do and we’re doing no one any harm. If you’ll undertake to go back to your flat and forget about us, we’ll let you go. And we’ll give you a dozen Black and White into the bargain!”

As he finished Gregson smiled, invitingly.

“Well, it’s an attractive proposition,” admitted Rollison. “But you aren’t fools, are you?”

“You’ll find out,” growled ‘Keller.’

“Be quiet,” ordered Gregson. “No, we’re not fools, Rollison.”

“So I imagined. What’s to prevent me from giving you a promise and then breaking it?”

“I told you—” ‘Keller’ began.

“Oh, be quiet!” repeated Gregson harshly. “We know you might do that, Rollison but, if you do—well, you know what happened to O’Hara.”

“Yes. Intimidating,” murmured Rollison. “The thing is, I’m not convinced that you’re resigned to Kemp staying on. I mean, what happened to O’Hara could easily happen to him.”

“Now look here,” said Gregson, still reasoningly, “if we were to kill Kemp, or even you, the police wouldn’t rest until they’d turned Whitechapel upside down. We don’t want them to do that. This is the reasonable way. You’re a man of the world. It doesn’t matter to you if a few cases of whisky get stolen and sold at a good profit. That’s what we’re doing—but it’s a dangerous game these days. We’d be charged with black-marketing and we might get seven years. That’s enough to make us careful—and to shut the mouth of talkers like O’Hara.”

“So O’Hara talked too much,” said Rollison.

“He couldn’t keep his mouth shut when he’d had a couple,” said Gregson. “It was a coincidence that Craik was there when he was killed.”

“And an accident that Craik’s knife was used?”

“It didn’t matter who’s knife, so long as it didn’t belong to the man who actually used it,” said Gregson. “O’Hara was nothing to you, Rollison. He was an Irishman who’s only been here six months and he’s a loss to no one. He wasn’t even married! Listen to me. We’ve heard a lot about you. Perhaps you’re good and you’ve just been unlucky this time. It doesn’t matter either way. You aren’t a fool, either. This job isn’t one you need worry about, so forget all about it and go home and enjoy yourself with free Black and White.”

“Genuine stuff?” inquired Rollison.