John Creasey - The Toff And The Curate

“Which boys?” asked Rollison.

“He’s got a dozen in his mob!”

“Harry Keller and his dozen, is it?” mused Rollison. “Where can I find Keller?”

“I—I dunno,” said Spike and his voice became a squeak. “I don’t, I tell yer—that’s Gawd’s truth. He’s not one who stays in the same place for long. Last I heard, he was at The Docker but he ain’t there now. I seed ‘im in the street ternight, that’s when he gimme the job.”

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.