The Toff And The Curate - John Creasey

“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.

“Who is he?” she squeaked.

“It—it’s Mr Rollison,” said Whiting, nervously. “I—I somehow didn’t think you would come, Mr Rollison.”

“We can go on from there,” smiled Rollison, leaning against a piano which took up most of one wall. “Why didn’t you open the front door as soon as we knocked?”

Whiting licked his lips.

“They—the men told me not to.”

“Do you know who they were?”

“No, I’ve never seen them before,” answered Whiting. “They came about ten minutes before you—came the back way.” He licked his lips again. “They said we wasn’t to help Mr Kemp or go to the church—if we did, they said, they’d—” he stopped, tongue-tied.

Rollison’s eyes held a steely glint.

“The men who uttered menaces!” he murmured. “Whom did they threaten? Your children?”

“Yes!” Whiting gasped.

“We had to promise we wouldn’t help Mr Kemp!” Mrs Whiting cried, “we don’t want anything to happen to our children, Mr Rollison!”

“Of course you don’t and nothing will,” Rollison assured her. “Why do they want to keep you away from church, Whiting? Do you know?”

“They—they only just told us that,” said Whiting, “but I think I know why. I was—I was with Joe Craik,” he added with a nervous rush. “We was walking down to the hall together and two men bumped into us. They went off and Joe said they’d picked “is pocket but the only thing missing was his knife, he said, and he might have left that at his shop.”

“Go on,” murmured Rollison.

“Well, we hadn’t got much further on when three more were waiting for us, near the hall,” Whiting said, sending a troubled glance at the old woman in the corner, who clearly disapproved of his frankness. “They started leading off about Mr Kemp. It wasn’t fair, the things they said—it just wasn’t fair. I didn’t want any trouble but Joe answered back and before we knew where we were, they was on us. We had to hit back,” Whiting added, defensively. “The police come and one of them was on the pavement—I thought he’d knocked hisself out. Instead—”

“He warned you, didn’t he?” squeaked the old woman in the corner. “He told you wot would ‘appen if you squealed!”

“Be quiet, Ma,” pleaded Whiting.

“He told you—”

“Hold your tongue, mother!” Mrs Whiting swung round on the older woman, surprisingly sharp-tongued. “We don’t want any nonsense from you! It wasn’t right to promise not to see Mr Kemp. If it hadn’t been for you, Erny wouldn’t never have promised!”

“If they was my children—”

Rollison smiled at the old crone and moved towards her.

“Nothing’s going to happen to the children, that’s a promise.” He surveyed her with his head on one side, compelling her to return his gaze. After a long pause, her expression relaxed; but her words were grudging.

“If you ses so, I suppose that’s all right.”

“It will be,” Rollison assured her and turned to Whiting. “Have you told the police anything yet?”

“No,” said Whiting. “Joe told me to hop it, because we didn’t want no more trouble. It wasn’t until afterwards that I knew the chap on the ground was dead.”

“Don’t you have nothing to do with the police!” protested the old woman.

“They’ll have to hear the story,” Rollison said, “but it might be wise for you not to go into details, Whiting. Leave it to me, will you?”

“I really ought—” Whiting began and then shrugged. “All right, Mr Rollison. But what shall I say if they come?”

“Forget all about the first pair you met and just tell the truth about the fight,” answered Rollison. “Kemp, will you stay here for half an hour?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Keep the doors and windows shut,” Rollison said. “As soon as I’m back, everything will be all right’

He knew that Kemp was bursting to ask questions but the curate showed admirable self-restraint. The old woman’s suspicious gaze was on Rollison as he went out of the room. He made sure that no one was about in the lane then walked towards the corner of the street and along Jupe Street to a telephone kiosk. Before entering, he waited, listening intently, but he heard nothing.

Soon he was speaking to a man whose voice sounded heavy with sleep and who complained bitterly about being disturbed in the middle of the night. Immediately Rollison gave his name, the sleepiness seemed to vanish and the protests might never have been uttered.

“Why, Mr Ar, wot a pleasure! I never expected to ‘ear from you ternight, that’s a fact. Can I do anyfink for you, Mr Ar?”

“Yes, Bill,” said Rollison, “there’s a family named Whiting, living at 49, Little Lane, off Jupe Street. They’ve three children. I want you to look after them.”

“They in trouble?”

“A Mr Harry Keller doesn’t like them,” said Rollison.

There was no immediate response.

He needed no more telling that Harry Keller meant something to Bill Ebbutt, who kept a pub in the Mile End Road and also ran a boxing gymnasium where many of the more promising boxers were trained and managed. The war had whittled down the number of young hopes but the older men still trained and some young men in reserved occupations went there regularly. Bill Ebbutt’s gymnasium was an unofficial club with hundreds of members, most of them connected with the ring, all well-trained and packing a pretty punch. No man who belonged to Bill’s “club’ dabbled in the more vicious types of crime. The police would have liked to interview some but even they admitted that members of the club were usually law-abiding.

Bill broke his silence at last.

“That’s all right, Mr Ar. I’ll look arter the kids. It’ll take a lot of men, mind yer—it might run you into a bit o’ money, too, because they won’t be able to do their ord’nary jobs while they’re watching.”

“There’s no limit to expenses,” Rollison said.

“That’s good of you, Mr Ar! P’raps you’ll come rahnd and see me when yer can?”

“I will, before long,” promised Rollison. “How soon can you get men to Little Lane?”

“Take me the best par’ve a coupla hours,” declared Bill.

“Make it less if you can,” urged Rollison and rang off.

Walking back to Little Lane, he mused on the conversation. What had been left unsaid, a great deal. Ebbutt had preferred not to speak about Keller on the telephone, which was curious, and had presented an urgent plea for Rollison to go to see him. Something about Keller obviously worried Bill.

An hour and a half later, a knock at the door of Whiting’s house heralded the arrival of three men from the gymnasium. Rollison spoke to them, to make sure that they were genuine ‘club’ members, gave instructions and left the house with Kemp.

In the street, Kemp asked gruffly:

“Who are those fellows, Rollison?”

“Good friends of mine and they will be friends of yours if you show them what you can do with your fists,” said Rollison. By the time he had finished explaining, they were back at the church hall.

As they attempted to tidy up the small room which Kemp used, Rollison spoke thoughtfully.

“I should have fixed a bodyguard for you, too.”

“Don’t worry about me,” said Kemp. “You’ve taken a load off my mind and I don’t know how to say thanks. I can look after myself but when it comes to other people being victimised—” he broke off, and smiled. “You certainly know your way about!”

Rollison was on the point of leaving when a taxi drew up outside and Jolly arrived.

He had little information. No word of the trouble at the hall had yet reached Freddie Day or others whom Jolly had seen but the hostility towards Kemp was already well known. Not until they were in the taxi, the driver of which was still in a good humour, did Jolly confide that the majority were taking a neutral attitude. Kemp had not yet made a very good impression among his parishioners.

“He will,” said Rollison, confidently.

He told Jolly what had happened before they reached the flat. Rollison paid the driver off, adding a pound to the fare and walked upstairs with the man’s gusty thanks ringing in his ears.

Jolly had gone ahead.

Afterwards, Rollison knew that he should have been prepared for some such development, although he had not thought of the possibility of a visit to the flat so early. As it was, he stepped inside the little hall and saw Jolly standing motionless with his back towards him, just inside the drawing-room.

“What—” he began.

“That’s enough from you, Rollison,” said a voice from behind him.

Rollison forced himself not to turn too hastily but his heart began to thump. The voice was that of the thick-set man whom he had seen at the back of Whiting’s house. He caught a glimpse of the owner of the educated voice, standing in front of Jolly. He got the impression that Jolly was being held up at the point of a gun, as he turned to look into the curiously docile looking brown eyes of the man with the growling voice.

CHAPTER FIVE

“I’m Keller.”

Once he had recovered from the surprise, Rollison smiled into the man’s face.

“Harry Keller, I presume,” he said.

“I’m Keller, yes,” answered the thick-set man. “When are you going to stop nosing into other people’s business?”

“It’s a congenital failing, I’m afraid,” said Rollison, sadly, “I can’t help myself.”

“You’ll help yourself this time,” said Keller.

His assurance in itself was puzzling. If the visitors had planned an attack it would probably have been made when Rollison had walked unsuspectingly into the hall. It appeared more likely that Keller had come to reason with him and that was puzzling.

“What makes you think so?” he inquired politely.

“We don’t want that big parson around and we don’t intend to let him stay, Toff or no Toff. Nothing you can do will make any difference but if you don’t lay off, you will get hurt.”

“Oh, dear,” said Rollison, blankly.

“I mean hurt,” repeated Keller, harshly. “It won’t help you to run to the dicks. They can’t get at me and I’m too powerful for you on your own. It’s time you stayed where you belong.”

“Where do you think that is?” asked Rollison.

“In the West End with all your fancy tarts and your wealthy friends,” said Keller. “This isn’t a game for you, Rollison. You might get your hands dirty.” Rollison watched his mobile features, seeing the way his lips curled and his eyebrows rose. Keller was an impressive personality, it would be folly to underestimate him. “You stay in Mayfair, Rollison, and if you must stick your nose into things that don’t concern you, there’s plenty of cleaning up to be done in your own back yard. But you wouldn’t try that, would you? You might find your precious friends are mixed up in it.”

“In what?” asked Rollison, obtusely.

“You know what,” rasped Keller. “I’m telling you to stick around your own back yard and not meddle in mine.”

“A whole world, all of your own?” asked Rollison.

“If you won’t take a warning, don’t blame me for anything that happens. I don’t want to interfere with you. You let me alone, I’ll let you alone.”

“Now who could say fairer than that?” asked Rollison, lightly. “What would you say if a policeman were to walk into the flat this minute?” He studied the man curiously and thought he had him guessing. “I don’t suggest that it’s likely but I have all sorts of queer friends. I’d say to him: “Bill”—or Percy or whatever his name happened to be— “this is Harry Keller. He employed Spike Adams and Tom Harris to beat up the Rev Ronald Kemp. He employed others to wreck a mission hall and do some hundreds of pounds worth of damage. He stole the knife belonging to a man named Craik and killed a third party with the said Craik’s knife."“

The atmosphere had grown noticeably more tense while a movement from the drawing-room made him glance at the man with the cultured voice who was pushing past Jolly. He held a gun.

But no one spoke.

“Shall I go on?” Rollison asked. “"Having committed murder," I would add, "Keller worried because a man named Whiting knew about the stolen knife, so he visited Whiting and uttered threats and menaced the lives of Whiting’s children. After that, he heard from Spike Adams or Tom Harris that I was a friend of Kemp, so he came here, burglariously entered my flat, threatened my valet with a gun and uttered more menaces." Then,” continued Rollison, smiling faintly, “I would ask him how many years in gaol you’d be likely lo get.”

Keller spoke in a thin voice. “You don’t know what you’ve done, Rollison.”

“Oh, but I do,” said Rollison. “I’ve frightened you and your friend. Queer thing, fear. I’ve made a study of it.”

“Once and for all, Rollison, I’m telling you to stick to your own back yard!”