John Creasey - The Toff And The Curate

“They’d be queer fish if they liked it,” Rollison said. “But they don’t resent it, especially if they’re clothes for the women and children. Kemp, get one thing firmly fixed in your head. Most of your parishioners have exactly the same ideas of right and wrong as you have, although they differ in degree. They like a fighter, even if they don’t like what he fights for. If a man doesn’t drink or smoke, that’s his affair, but if he tries to convert others to his way of thinking, it’s a different matter. That goes for any kind of habit, vice or crime—the one way you might get some of them to look at it differently is by example— only by example. Do you see what I’m driving at?”

“Yes,” said Kemp, slowly. “As a matter of fact, Mr Cartwright said something on the same lines but I haven’t been able to see him for several weeks.” He looked rueful. “I didn’t pay much attention at the time.”

“Try to, now,” urged Rollison. “What was I saying? Oh—item one: you’ve upset someone badly and you’re the only one who can find out how. It may be simply a matter of having trodden on someone’s corns but it doesn’t look like that to me,” he admitted, thoughtfully.

“What does it look like?” asked Kemp.

“A much bigger motive,” said Rollison. “But that’s guesswork and won’t help us. This Mr and Mrs Whiting—where do they live?”

“In Little Lane—it’s off Jupe Street.”

“I know it,” said Rollison. “Let’s go and see them.”

Kemp obviously did not see much point in them both going but he raised no serious objection and, after closing the door, the lock of which had been broken by the wreckers, they walked through the blackout towards Little Lane.

They had not gone fifty yards before Rollison knew that they were being followed.

He said nothing to Kemp until they reached the corner and then spoke in a whisper.

“Walk straight on and make as much noise as you can. Don’t argue!”

He heard Kemp’s intake of breath as the man was about to speak but obediently the curate crossed the end of the lane and stamped towards Whitechapel Road. Rollison slipped back into the lane and, after a few seconds, two men passed; they made little sound and the soft padding of their footsteps told him that they were wearing rubber-soled shoes.

He wished that he was, too.

He moved after them, drawing closer. It was too dark for him to see Kemp but he could just make out the figures of the others. Both were short men who moved easily and silently.

Kemp’s footsteps rang out clearly and the two short men quickened their pace.

Rollison followed suit, caring less now about being heard, but the others appeared too intent on their task to keep on the alert for anyone else.

Rollison suddenly shone his torch full on the two men who were within a few feet of Kemp. One of them had an arm upraised, and was holding a cosh.

“Look out, Kemp!” cried Rollison.

He broke into a run as Kemp swung round; the cosh appeared to strike him on the shoulder but with nothing like the power with which he struck at his assailant. The man toppled over before his companion swung round to get away—only to run straight into Rollison.

He tried to dodge aside; Rollison put out a leg and tripped him up.

“Are you all right?” he called to Kemp.

After a pause, Kemp called back in a strained voice.

“Rollison, I think I’ve hurt him.”

“Even if you’ve broken his neck, it wouldn’t rate as manslaughter! Is he unconscious?”

The man he had tripped up was foxing as he lay motionless on the floor and he kept the beam of light on him.

“Yes,” called Kemp.

“Make sure, then pick him up and take him back to the hall,” said Rollison. “I—ah!”

His own victim sprang to his feet like a spring-heeled-Jack and made to dart down the street but Rollison shot out a hand and caught his coat, yanking him back. He fended off an attempt to kick him in the stomach, got a grip on the man’s arm and held it behind his back in a hammer-lock. The man began to squeal.

“The more you wriggle, the more it will hurt,” Rollison said quietly.

No one appeared to have heard the scuffle and the only sounds were their voices and Kemp’s footsteps. Kemp came up, carrying a man in his arms and Rollison spoke mildly.

“I don’t like ribbing you all the time, old chap, but if he comes round he could get his hands on your throat, or gouge your eyes out or knee you in the stomach. Put him over your shoulder in a fireman’s hold and keep a grip on one of his wrists. That’s better!” Although he could not see clearly in the light of the torch, he approved the speed with which Kemp took his advice. Together, they went to the hall. The squealing of the Toff’s captive grew louder. Still no one appeared to hear them and they entered the hall without having encountered a soul.

Kemp lowered his victim to a broken bench.

“Surely some one heard us?” he said.

Rollison chuckled.

“Half Jupe Street heard us but it wasn’t their business. We haven’t done so badly, have we?”

“Did you expect this?”

“I wasn’t altogether surprised,” admitted Rollison, “but I didn’t hope for a brace of them. Nasty-looking brutes, aren’t they? Have you ever seen either of them before?”

“No,” said Kemp.

Looped round the right wrist of his victim, who was still unconscious but not badly hurt, was a cosh—a weapon not unlike a rubber truncheon but smooth and round at one end and narrow near the wrist. He pulled it off; it was flexible and he swished it through the air, letting it go perilously close to the man who was cowering back against the wall. The weapon missed his head by inches.

“No!” he gasped. “No!”

“Sorry,” said Rollison, perfunctorily. “Do you know this weapon, Kemp?”

“No,” said Kemp again.

“It’s a common or garden cosh,” Rollison told him, “and it’s as popular here as the knuckle-duster, razor and flick-knife but less dangerous. Feel it.” Kemp fingered the thicker end. “It’s filled with lead shot,” went on Rollison, “and is made like that so that it will knock a man out but leave no permanent injury, probably not even a bruise. So they didn’t intend to kill which should console you.” He smiled crookedly at Kemp but, before the curate could reply, he swung round on the conscious man and spoke in a rough voice. “Now! It’s time you talked. Who sent you after Mr Kemp?”

CHAPTER THREE

Talk Of Harry Keller

The man’s mouth dropped open and he tried to back further against the wall but only succeeded in knocking the back of his head against it. The Toff moved the cosh again, not violently, but close to his frightened eyes. The man was undersized, round-faced with a broken nose and an ugly scar over his right eye. From his cauliflower ears the Toff classed him as an ex-prize fighter. He was a man of perhaps forty and, in spite of his fear, there was a cunning glint in his eyes.

He drew in a hiss of breath.

“I—I just ‘appened to be—”

“You just happened to meet a friend and you were walking along with him when all of a sudden he jumped out at someone in front of him,” said Rollison, sarcastically. “I know all about that one, I’ve heard it before. I’d followed you far enough to know that you were both involved, so don’t lie. Who told you to . . .”

“I dunno!” squealed the man.

“You dunno, don’t you,” said Rollison. “Kemp, I’m going to give you a lesson in how to make a stubborn man talk. You might find it useful but don’t say who taught you!” He raised the cosh as if he meant business and Kemp actually put out a hand to restrain him.

“I’ll tell you!” gasped the little man, rearing up against the wall, “ ’Arry Keller gimme a quid to come along wiv Spike!”

Rollison glanced at the man on the floor.

“And is he Spike?”

“Spike Adams, that’s his name, mister.”

“And what’s your name?” demanded Rollison.

“I—I don’t ‘ave to tell yer my name, do I?” asked the little man, in a wheedling tone, “I’ve told yer the names of the others. Gimme a break. I never did nothing, I only drifted along with Spike, that’s all.”

“When you’ve given me your name and waited for half an hour, you can go,” said Rollison.

“You mean that?” The man’s little eyes lit up.

“Yes,” said Rollison—and released a flood of talk.

“My name’s “Arris, mister, Tom “Arris. I live dahn in River Row, everyone knows Tom “Arris—me name’s an ‘ouseold word. Never beaten, I wasn’t. Had two hundred and two fights an’ never beaten, that’s me. I’m dahn on me luck, mister,” went on Harris in maudlin tones. “I wouldn’t have done such a thing as I done tonight if I ‘adn’t been. A quid means a lot to me an’ I never knew what Spike was going to do. That’s Gawd’s truth.”

“I don’t think!” said Rollison. “Go and sit on the stage and don’t move until I tell you to.”

“Me wife’ll be expecting me,” declared Harris, pleadingly, “I promised I wouldn’t be no later than one o’clock. You wouldn’t let a woman be left alone at night these days, would you?”

“Some women, gladly,” said Rollison. “Get on the stage.”

Harris shrugged his shoulders and slouched off.

“Keep an eye on him,” Rollison said, sotto voce, “he might start throwing the chairs about.”

He spoke loudly enough for the man on the floor to hear, if he were conscious, and stepped towards the other wall. The man bounded to his feet and darted for the door. Rollison picked up a chair and threw it so that the man went sprawling.

“Now, Spike,” said Rollison, chidingly. “Foxing won’t help you. He strolled over to the man, who made no further attempt to get up, and smiled at him. “So Harry Keller sent you, did he?”

Adams glared up.

“So you’re not a talker, like Harris?” said Rollison, “I suppose I couldn’t expect to find two on the same night.” He glanced at Kemp who was trying to watch him and keep an eye on Harris at the same time. “I don’t think we need worry about this customer, do you? The police will look after him, he’ll probably get twelve months for using the cosh.”

Adams broke across the words.

“If you run me in, I’ll see you get beaten up. Got me?”

“It’s like that, is it?” asked Rollison, thrusting a hand into his pocket and swinging the cosh with the other. “I don’t think you’ve recognised me, Spike.”

“I don’t give a damn who you are!”

“You should, you know,” said Rollison. “For now I come to think of it, I’ve seen and heard a lot about you. Try using your memory.” When Adams kept silent, he went on in an amiable tone: “Come! You should be able to do better than this!”

A remarkable change came over Spike Adams’s face. One moment he was glaring defiance; the next he was staring incredulously and defiance seemed to ooze away from him. His body relaxed and his lips began to move but he only managed to stutter. Rollison stood smiling down at him. Kemp gave up all pretence of watching the man on the stage.

“Gawd!” exclaimed Spike, at last, “you’re the Toff!”

“That’s right, Spike.”

“You—you ain’t in this affair.”

“Didn’t Harry Keller tell you I was,” asked Rollison. “He should be fair, shouldn’t he?” His voice changed. “Let’s have it: what do you know?”

Spike began to talk freely.

“I dunno much, mister, that’s a fact. Keller gimme the orders, said I was to beat the parson up. That’s all. He never said I might run inter the Toff. Listen, mister, you wouldn’t run me in, would you? I ’ad to do it, if I hadn’t, Keller would’ve put some of the boys on me.”