The Toff And The Curate - John Creasey

“Find who?” asked Grice.

“The Devil,” said Rollison. “Ever heard of him?”

“You’re an unpredictable fellow,” remarked Grice. “I wish—”

What he wished was not voiced for there were hurried footsteps outside and a man burst through the shop. As he did so there were sounds from further away, shouting, crashing, banging noises, as if Bedlam had been let loose.

“What is it?” called Grice.

“There’s trouble at the wharf, sir!” gasped the man. “Some of the dockers have started a riot there’s hell-let-loose, sir!”

“Nothing unpredictable about me,” said Rollison, as they rushed downstairs. “You can guess what’s happened?”

Grice did not answer but ran through the shop where Craik was standing with his lips quivering, already handcuffed. Grice flung himself into his car and Rollison scrambled in as it moved off. As they approached the end of Jupe Street and the wharf, he saw that the mobile canteen was in the middle of a heaving mass of people. Standing inside it, with Isobel, Jolly was lashing out with what looked like a tea-urn.

The loudest of the voices had an Irish brogue.

“Someone spread the rumour that the canteen attendants were demanding the sack for the Irish,” a nearby policeman said. “If they get hold of Miss Crayne—”

Rollison’s face was bleak.

CHAPTER TWENTY—TWO

“Let’s Blame The Irish”

The police among the seething mass were heavily outnumbered. Bricks and stones and staves of wood were being used, heads were being cracked and now and again a part of the crowd surged forward as people fell with arms and legs waving, voices screeching in fear and terror. Nearer the wharf, a horse and cart was standing and the horse was squealing with terror and rearing up.

Grice drove as near as he could.

“We’ll have to walk,” he said.

“Walk if you want to,” said Rollison, white-faced. He was more than a hundred yards from the canteen and he knew that Jolly would not be able to stand out much longer. The main attack was undoubtedly directed towards the canteen. Buns and sandwiches were being flung in all directions and cups and saucers were hurtling through the air.

Grice got out.

Rollison slid into his place and raced the engine, startling the people nearest him. They scrambled out of his way. He edged the car forward and Grice appeared at the other door, suddenly, and climbed in again. A man cuffed his head, another caught his finger in the door as it slammed and howled with pain. Grice opened the door and caught a glimpse of a man’s thumb, dripping blood, and a face which had gone white. The face dropped away. Rollison drove the car faster, bumping three people out of the way. He wound up his window as someone smashed a stave against it. Grice locked his door. The surging crowd surrounded the car but Rollison would not let them stop him. When half a dozen people put their weight against the radiator and the bumper he raced the engine and forced them aside. Men clung to the running-board, one sitting on the bonnet, battering at the windscreen with his fists. Rollison ignored him, craned his neck and managed to keep the canteen in view.

A giant with a crop of red hair was leaning over the counter and had caught Jolly’s wrist.

He was trying to pull Jolly into the crowd. Isobel was battering at his head with an enamel jug. A second man clutched her wrist and she snatched up a knife from behind the counter.

The man let go.

“Good for Isobel!” said Rollison.

The canteen was still twenty-five yards away and the crush around it seemed to be too great even for the car to get through. Tight-lipped, he sent two men down; they were dragged aside. The crowd swayed away and he was able to make another ten yards; then another ten.

The red-haired man had disappeared but two others were tugging at Jolly and now one man had his fingers buried in Isobel’s hair. Not far away, someone was swinging a stick but he was a short fellow whom Rollison could not see properly. He seemed to be battering his way towards the canteen. Two uniformed policemen were battling towards it.

The car reached the canteen, drawing up only two yards away from it. A dozen people were battering at the doors. Tight-lipped and pale, Rollison drew his automatic.

“Be careful!” Grice snapped.

“Careful be damned!” Rollison brandished the gun and it was enough to make the nearer men back away. He opened the door and leapt towards the canteen counter. Using the gun as a club, he cracked it on the heads of the men tugging at Jolly, forcing them to relinquish their grip. He struck the man who was pulling Isobel’s hair and heard the crack of the blow. The man dropped back and Isobel drew away, brushing the hair out of her eyes.

Rollison vaulted over the counter, nearly knocking Jolly over, and swung round, pointing the gun at the crowd. Grice joined in, the four of them a tight fit inside the canteen.

There were hundreds of men in front of them, roaring, swearing, cursing.

Above the din, Rollison could hear the stentorian voice of Foreman Owen. It was he who was brandishing the stick and forcing his way up. He burst through and turned to face the crowd.

“Get back to work, you . . .” he roared. “Get back, if a mother’s son of you stays another minute, I’ll—”

What he was going to add was drowned in another roar but it was caused by a different crowd, coming down Jupe Street—and, in the van, Rollison saw Billy the Bull and Bill Ebbutt. The members of the gymnasium club were coming in a solid phalanx, pushing everyone before them. Soon, the malice of the crowd was turned towards them.

By now the police had been reinforced and were appearing along side streets and from the wharf. Rollison, gasping for breath, watched the riot subside as the men began to slip away, many returning to the wharf. Owen chased after them, yelling his head off.

Rollison turned to Isobel.

“There’s your mild little man,” he remarked.

Isobel laughed, in spite of herself. Her face was scratched and a few strands of hair had been torn out but she was not seriously hurt. Jolly had an ugly gash in his right cheek and his wrists were swollen but he was smiling as he watched the crowd moving away.

“I was getting a little perturbed, sir,” he admitted.

“I was scared stiff!” said Rollison. “I bet Kemp will be sorry he missed this one. He’s in the clear, by the way.”

Isobel stared.

"By the way!” she echoed.

“Well, in a manner of speaking,” smiled Rollison. “He’ll be out within an hour, I should think. Eh, Bill?”

“Yes,” said Grice. “Why on earth did this begin?”

“As I understand it, sir,” said Jolly, “there was a sudden outburst of trouble at the wharf. A party of Irish were abused by some of the others and that started a free fight. It spread very quickly—the Irish have a reputation for being bellicose, as you probably know.”

Grice frowned. “The Irish—”

“Oh, let’s blame the Irish, by all means!” said Rollison, taking out cigarettes and proffering them. “But let’s be serious, Bill. The fact that a police cordon had been flung round a wide area leaked out—as it was bound to. Craik and the others tried a diversion. There’s bad blood between some Irish dockers and some English and it never takes much to start a fight, as Isobel and I saw the other evening,” he added.

“There are often scuffles,” admitted Isobel.

“Yes. The easiest way to start a row is for an Englishman to call an Irishman in England a neutral,” went on Rollison. “Our pretty bunch had always tried to draw attention to the wharf and the Irish workers. Today, they had a new idea and tried to cause trouble for Isobel. However, the distraction didn’t work, we went to Craik too quickly.

“Craik!” exclaimed Isobel.

Rollison smiled but Grice did the explaining for Rollison was suddenly besieged by members of the club who wanted to know what it was all about.

*     *     *

The whole story, checked and cross-checked, was not known for the better part of a week but the essentials were known before the following day was out.

Every effort had been made to make it appear that the illicit whisky came in at East Wharf, whereas it was actually made at several depots of Straker Brothers Cartage and Transport Company. The depots were also distribution points throughout the country. Crates of the illicit whisky were delivered with the genuine cases but since the buyers knew where to look for it, there had been no danger of that fact leaking out.

From the beginning, Craik had been in charge of the Whitechapel district. Gregson’s companion was named Keller but the name had also been used by Craik to cover an imaginary character behind which he could hide and, which had been planned, would help to frame Kemp. Gregson and the real ‘Keller’ had been the managers for the whole of the East End, going further afield in some cases, and also handling the West End sales from the Daisy Club. Craik had used the St Guy’s records to cover his own, thinking that he would not have to show them until Cartwright was better and always putting off making dummy church accounts. The arrival of Kemp had put Craik in danger but Kemp had first been a threat in the West End.

Straker had believed him to be working on it because he suspected who was behind it—a suggestion which Kemp dismissed airily, on the following morning.

“I had no idea he was in any kind of racket. He had always impressed me as being a very sound fellow.”

“As did Craik,” said Rollison.

Kemp frowned. “Ye-es. Oh, I know they hoodwinked me but Craik always seemed such a sincere little man, timid as they come.”

“Moral—don’t confuse timidity with humility,” advised Rollison, sitting back in his favourite chair. “The truth was that you prod-nosed to such good effect that you had them badly worried. As you were likely to be much easier to handle in the East End, Straker did a little sales-talk and there you went. The question is—are you sorry you went to St Guy’s?”

“Great Scott, no!” cried Kemp. “I wouldn’t be anywhere else for the world!”

“You mean that?”

“I do,” said Kemp, fervently. “I don’t mind admitting that I decided to go down there feeling something of a martyr and with a great spirit of self-sacrifice but—” he shrugged, “give me people like Billy the Bull, Bill Ebbutt, the Whitings—oh, there are hundreds of them. D’you know, Rolly, since I’ve been down there and seen the conditions under which they live, the marvel is that they are such a decent bunch.”

“My way of thinking for a long time,” said Rollison.

“The trouble is, there’s such a gulf between them and the rest of London. I mean—”

“No gulf that can’t be crossed,” said Rollison. “Our job is to help ‘em bridge it. It’ll be nice to have some help, eh, Isobel?”

“You don’t need much help,” declared Isobel Crayne.

“Oh, come! Without Jolly I’d be lost— wouldn’t I, Jolly?”

“I very much doubt it, sir,” said Jolly coming in with a tea-trolley, “but it is always a great pleasure to work with you on these little excursions—or, one might say, these aberrations from the normal.”

“Yes, mightn’t one?” murmured Rollison.

“Oh, did I tell you?” asked Kemp, shortly afterwards, munching a muffin with a great show of nonchalance and carefully avoiding Isobel’s eye, isobel and I have decided that as we’re both rather fond of the district and the people, and two together can probably do much more than one—I mean—well, we’ve decided—”

“Fast workers, both of you,” smiled Rollison. “I’m delighted. The others will be, too.”

“Others?” asked Isobel.

“All your little brothers and sisters East of Aldgate Pump!” said Rollison, grandly.

On the Sunday morning following the riot, he went to St Guy’s with Jolly and took up a stand at a point of vantage near the entrance to the churchyard. Keeping out of sight behind some shrubs, he watched the cavalcade approaching. Rarely had the narrow streets been so crowded at that hour.

Children with red and shining faces and shoes newly-cleaned, women heavily made-up and wearing all their finery, men with carefully brushed hats, newly-pressed suits and highly polished shoes, all followed on. Many of them had a self-conscious air but not the Whitings, who were glowing with happiness, nor Owen, who was never likely to feel out of place.

Jolly nudged Rollison.

Striding along with his diminutive second was Billy the Bull, wearing an old-fashioned bowler hat with a curly brim, light brown shoes and a bright blue suit. Now and again, he looked over his shoulder, almost furtively. Nearby was Bill Ebbutt, his face now almost normal, with his wife, in ‘Army’ uniform, striding out beside her—she looked as if she would soon burst into huzzahs. Red-haired Irishmen, puny-looking Cockneys, dark-skinned Lascars and almond-eyed Chinese mixed freely with the others.

Rollison nudged Jolly.

Walking alone and certainly self-conscious, but putting a bold face on it, was Inspector Chumley.

Soon afterwards, a taxi drew up and from it alighted the venerable figure of the Rev Martin Anstruther. After him, hurrying with the stragglers, came Isobel in her WVS uniform. She went inside, breathlessly.

“A good show,” murmured Rollison. “We’ll be lucky to find a pew.”

They did not find one but chairs from one of the halls had been brought in. The sidesmen were busy, bustling and perspiring, and one hoped Rollison and Jolly would not mind sharing a hymnal. Soon the Rev Ronald Kemp began to take the service. His powerful voice was pitched low, as if he were also self-conscious. His damaged eye was no longer badly swollen but was of many colours. When at last he went into the pulpit and began his sermon, he chose to preach on pride—the deadliest of sins; and he did not pull his punches. As he talked, his voice grew more powerful and he completely lost himself.

Afterwards, Anstruther caught a glimpse of Rollison and smiled and cocked a thumb, a surprising gesture from the old man. Isobel was beaming. The grande dame of the Whiting family declared audibly, and with a sniff, that he could preach—and she supposed that was something.

Chumley hung back until he saw Rollison.

“I’m sorry we didn’t see eye-to-eye, Mr Rollison,” he began.

“Bygones are really bygones,” declared the Toff. “You and Kemp ought to swap ideas.”

“He’ll probably force his on me!” said Chumley, wryly. “And so,” said Rollison to Jolly, as they made their way homewards, “everything in the garden is lovely until Old Nick pops his head up again.”

Jolly smiled, benignly.

“If I may use the expression, sir, I think that when he does, Kemp will dot him one vigorously. Don’t you agree sir?”

The End