John Creasey - The Toff And The Curate

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 appeared, 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.

“So you brought the police here. I have no objection to coming with you, Superintendent.” His look suggested that he would have liked to add that he would gladly go anywhere out of sight of Rollison who did not speak again. Grice, slightly mollified, led Kemp out of the room. Several Scotland Yard men arrived and began to search the premises.

Rollison was aware of Jolly’s inquiring gaze.

“Quite a morning, isn’t it, Jolly? The best laid schemes and all the rest of it. No meeting this evening, no catch, no trap. A curious business from the beginning. It’s time we started work!”

One of the plainclothes men looked at him curiously.

“On what, sir?” asked Jolly.

“Disabusing the fixed police mind,” said Rollison. “Oh, a splendid case has been built up against Kemp and it will take some breaking. Our job is to break it.” He led the way to the deserted street. A car was disappearing round the corner and against the back window he saw the silhouette of Kemp’s head. He walked in the car’s wake, with Jolly, until they reached Mount Street.

“Are you going to see Miss Crayne?” asked Jolly.

“As a bearer of bad tidings, yes. But also of hope. Come with me, it will save me telling the same story twice.”

Isobel received them in her father’s study which she used as an office for voluntary work. She was dressed in the familiar WVS green uniform. There was restraint in her smile as she greeted Rollison and nodded to Jolly.

“Is there trouble?” she demanded before Rollison could speak.

“The police have forestalled us,” said Rollison. “Your young man is in a really nasty spot.”

“Did you—”

“I hadn’t a thing to do with it,” said Rollison hardily. “Kemp was at a particularly hot night-club—I should say, at its office. He was overheard talking with men who used violence on the police. There couldn’t be much stronger evidence that he was associating with thieves.”

Isobel sat down, slowly.

“There must be an explanation,” she said, in a composed voice.

“Kemp was heard talking to them in a familiar manner and, when the police arrived, he was accused by one of them of a double-cross,” said Rollison. “Believe me, the evidence is there. Only the stubborn pride of your young man prevented him from making convincing denials. Pride is his chief shortcoming.”

“Will you please say what you mean?”

“Yes indeed,” Rollison promised. “I mean that this morning I didn’t feel too sure of Ronald but now I’m convinced that he is being very cleverly framed. I think he told the truth when he said that he had been called to the club by telephone and it was done so that the police should find him there. The other men who matter escaped and seemed confident that the police won’t find them. They allowed themselves to be seen going in by Jolly, presumably to get me there too. They have realised that the police suspect Kemp and are doing their best to make sure it goes further. We’ve a big job on our hands and there isn’t much time to lose.”