The Toff and the Deadly Priest (4 page)

“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.

 

 

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 fiat 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 to 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!”

“But Whitechapel
is
mine,” protested the Toff. “I was a frequenter of Jupe Street before you knew the difference between Whitechapel and Bethnal Green. What time did Grice say he'd be here, Jolly?”

Jolly answered with hardly a pause, as if he had been expecting the question, and Keller stiffened.

“At four o'clock, sir. I think he's a little late.”

“Grice is on holiday!” Keller growled.

“He was – but he would make any sacrifice in a good cause,” said Rollison, as if gratified. “When I asked him to come back, he promised to start right away. Of course, he'll be alone, so you might prefer to stay. One Superintendent of Scotland Yard won't make much difference to you. Besides, you are above the police.”

“I know what I'm about,” rasped Keller.

“That's splendid,” declared Rollison.

“If you don't—”

“Oh, go away!” snapped Rollison, losing patience. “You and your empty threats – what do you expect to gain? You've already lined up half of Whitechapel behind Kemp. Before tonight they hadn't much time for him, now they're on his side. Go away, and assimilate a little common sense!” He sounded almost pettish as he turned away, passing Jolly and the second man and pushing the latter roughly to one side he strode into the drawing room, and picked up the telephone.

The success of the trick he had planned depended upon Jolly – who dodged back into the drawing room and slammed the door. Rollison dropped the telephone and jumped to the door, putting his full weight against it as Jolly turned the key. Three heavy thuds shook it; then the men outside ceased trying to break it down.

Rollison and Jolly stood either side of the door, so that if Keller or his man fired into it, they would be out of harm's way.

Rollison spoke in a loud voice.

“Nicely done. Jolly!”

“Thank you, sir,” said Jolly, soberly.

“I hope Grice doesn't run into them,” Rollison went on, sounding anxious. “He's an impetuous beggar, and might start a riot. I'd better ring for someone else from the Yard,” he added. He walked heavily round the room, then lifted the telephone and banged the receiver up and down several times.

The hall door slammed.

Rollison grinned. “That might be a pretty trick to make us show ourselves again, we'll stay where we are . . . Hallo, is that Scotland Yard? . . . Rollison speaking, give me Inspector Mason, please.” After a pause, he went on: “Yes, Sergeant Hamilton will do . . . hallo, Hamilton? Send a couple of your liveliest men round to the flat, will you? I'm locked in my own drawing room, with two homicidal maniacs in the hall, threatening to . . . yes, of course I'm serious!”

The startled sergeant promised that he would send men immediately, and Rollison replaced the receiver.

The flat was on the first floor and it would be possible to climb out of the window and surprise Keller from the rear. But he had no weapon, and had a healthy respect for the other's gun. Even if he only tried to follow them, it was so dark that they would probably shake him off. It would be best to stay where he was, confident that the flat would be clear of the intruders by the time the police arrived.

He and Jolly conversed in whispers, but that soon palled. They heard nothing for five minutes, then a car drew up outside and heavy footsteps came thumping on the stairs. Not until the police were outside the flat did Rollison unlock the drawing room door, and let them in.

Sergeant Hamilton, tall, fair and brisk, hoped Rollison had not been pulling his leg.

“I have not!” Rollison assured him, fervently, “I expected the men to try to break the door down, but they heard me telephoning you and decided not to wait.”

“Who were they?” demanded Hamilton.

“I haven't the faintest idea,” said Rollison.

Afterwards, when the police had gone and as dawn was breaking, he told Jolly that he did not propose to mention Keller's name to the police until he knew more about the man. For one thing, Keller's certainty that he was in no danger from the police, was a remarkable thing. For another, he wanted to feel the pulse of the East End before he stirred up police action. He had been perfectly serious when he had told Kemp that it would be better to fight on his own for the time being – the masses of the district would rally round him, when it was seen that he was trying to fight single-handed – or even with help from the Toff.

At a quarter-past five, Rollison went to bed.

At a quarter to eight, Jolly called him, for Rollison, an acting Colonel, was due at his office in Whitehall by nine-thirty. He had the week before him, for it was only Tuesday, and there was little chance of getting leave; the only way of doing that, he complained to Jolly, was to go sick.

“Won't you await events before taking that step?” asked Jolly.

“You mean won't I give you a free hand?” said Rollison, smiling unamusedly. “I suppose I'll have to. See Kemp and the Whitings, and keep me in touch with what happens. I'll lunch at the club, so ring me there.”

“Very good, sir,” said Jolly.

And the Toff, sadly, set out for Whitehall.

Twice in the course of the morning, a colleague said with some exasperation that he was not giving his mind to the subject under discussion, and twice he apologised and tried to pull himself together. In truth, he was apprehensive lest the Whitings had been made to suffer for their boldness. The one reassuring factor was that Bill Ebbutt had sounded as if he knew what kind of proposition he was up against with Keller, and would take elaborate precautions. It was absurd that Keller should be able to inspire such apprehension, and equally absurd that he should be so self-assured.

“But he isn't!” exclaimed Rollison, aloud.

“Now look here, Rolly,” said plump, bespectacled Colonel Bimbleton, “you know perfectly well that he was.”

“Eh?” asked Rollison.

“Oh, you're impossible!” declared Bimbleton, then peered at him with sudden interest. “I say, Rolly, is something up?”

“Up is
the
word,” said Rollison. “I'm sorry, Bimble, but I can't concentrate on this report. Would you care to have a shot at it yourself?”

Bimbleton regarded him curiously.

“Well, I don't mind trying,” he conceded, “provided you'll look through it afterwards, and make sure I haven't pulled a boner.”

Rollison promised this, and Bimbleton went off to wrestle with a report on pilfering from army stores depots, a task which Whitehall, in all its wisdom, had ordained to be eminently suitable for a man known to associate with the police.

Jolly did not telephone the office or the club.

After lunch, Rollison hurried back to the office, but his clerk, a plump A.T.S. sergeant, had no message for him.

In his cogitations, Rollison had got no further than that Keller
was
afraid of the police taking action against him, but had reason to think that a lot of prodding would be needed to make them. Keller had been at great pains to try to make sure that Whiting said nothing about the episode of the stolen knife, although there was nothing original in his methods. There were occasional outbursts of intimidation in the East End, and sometimes a terror wave which rarely lasted long once it was discovered by the authorities, but which might have gained a powerful hold before the police learned of it. Many a man had been frightened into refusing to give evidence, even to committing perjury, by threats such as Keller had made to Whiting.

Two inescapable facts troubled Rollison most.

One was that a man whose name he did not yet know had been murdered, and – judging from the evidence so far available – one Joe Craik had been framed for the murder. The second was that Keller had a very powerful reason for wanting to drum the curate out of the St. Guy's district.

He dictated letters and signed them, made a brief report on a matter he had been handling by himself, went over Bimbleton's prosy report with its author and made a few comments, and left for Gresham Terrace.

Jolly was not at the flat.

Rollison began to feel worried about his man; even if there was nothing to report, Jolly should have telephoned by now. When at last the telephone rang, he hurried to it, hoping to hear Jolly's voice. Instead, he heard Kemp's – and Kemp sounded excited.

 

 

“Great Scott, Rollison, I've been trying to get you all the afternoon!” exclaimed Kemp. “Where the dickens have you been?”

“I should have given you my office number,” said Rollison. “You'd better take a note of it.”

“Never mind that! Can you come here at once?”

“What's the trouble?” “

“I've had a visit from a most astonishing fellow,” said Kemp, amazement making his voice shrill. “I don't know his name, but you should have heard the way he talked! He told me that if you didn't stop interfering, he would mighty soon make you!”

“Did he have brown eyes and a gruff voice?”

“Yes, he did. How did you know?”

“He calls himself Keller,” said Rollison. “Don't worry about his threats. Did he do anything?”

He heard Kemp's sharp intake of breath.

“He didn't actually do anything,” said the curate. “But – he made the most astonishing offer. He offered to replace all the damaged goods at the hall and give five hundred pounds to St. Guy's Relief Fund, if—” Kemp grew almost incoherent.

“If you resigned?” asked Rollison.

“Yes!”

“What did you tell him?”

“I told him,” said Kemp, in a deep voice,
“exactly
where to get off!”

“That's the spirit!” acclaimed Rollison, feeling considerably relieved, “I was afraid you might have fallen for it.”

“I might have done yesterday,” said Kemp, “but not now – I've heard a lot about you today. Last night, I only had your name and the little I'd heard about you from the Whitings, but today—”

“Spare my blushes,” said Rollison. “How did you part with our brown-eyed briber?”

“Well, as a matter of fact,” said Kemp, less boisterously, “I felt a bit uneasy. He's a funny customer, isn't he? He went out breathing threats, and said he would give me forty-eight hours to change my mind. He also said
you
would have forty-eight, but I'm not particularly worried about
you.”

“So he's given a time limit, has he?” asked Rollison. “Don't let yourself be caught napping any time during the next forty-eight hours. Did he have anything else to say?”

“Have you thought of anything that might be the cause of the trouble?”

“I've wracked my brains, but I can't think of anything,” declared Kemp. “In fact, I don't think there can”Of course there is,” interrupted Rollison. “How are the Whitings?”

“They're all right. Those friends of yours have been to and from school with two of the youngsters. It was really funny this afternoon, one of the children is only eighteen months old, and Mrs. Whiting and the grandmother pushed him out to the shops, with two hefties walking behind them. It caused quite a sensation.”

“Good!” said Rollison. “Publicity is always useful.”

He omitted to say that Kemp's spirits seemed to be much brighter, and asked: “Have you seen my man?”

“That glum looking fellow, what's his name?”

“Jolly.”

“What?” asked Kemp, incredulously, and then added hastily: “No, I haven't seen him. Should he have come here?”

“No, it's all right,” said Rollison.

He rang down, after promising to see Kemp later. He was worried, but smiled from time to time when he thought of Keller's offer. After setting his roughnecks on Kemp, attempted bribery was a climb-down – but it told him how seriously Keller intended to get rid of the curate.

Ten minutes later, the telephone rang again. This time, Rollison heard his man's prim voice.

“Good evening, sir.”

“Well, well!” said Rollison, and added sarcastically: “It's nice of you to ring me.”

“I'm sorry that I had no opportunity of telephoning earlier,” said Jolly, stolidly, “but my inquiries took me out of London, and I had to choose between continuing with them and advising you that I could not do so. I came to the conclusion—”

“Yes, you were right,” said Rollison, hastily. “Where are you now?”

“In Loughton, sir, near Epping Forest. I—” There was a short pause, before Jolly went on in a sharper voice: “I am quite all right, but I must go now. I will telephone again at the earliest opportunity. Goodbye, sir!”

Rollison heard the receiver bang down.

He sat contemplating the telephone for some time. It was rare that Jolly allowed himself to be hurried, and he had taken his time at the beginning of the conversation. Only one likely explanation presented itself – that Jolly was keeping watch on someone, who had reappeared sooner than he had expected. Reassured, Rollison did not waste time in more than passing speculation on what had taken Jolly to Loughton.

He looked through the evening papers for an account of the murder of the previous night. It was tucked away on an inside page, and contained the statement that the murdered man's name was O'Hara. Joseph Craik, of la, Jupe Street, had been charged with the murder and been remanded for eight days. Det. Sergeant Bray, of Scotland Yard, had made the arrest. Inspector Chumley, of the AZ. Division, was not so much as mentioned.

“I suppose I shall have to find out what they're doing sooner or later,” Rollison mused.

Yet the more he pondered, the more determined he became to let the police make the first move. Craik would come to no harm while under remand – he might even be safer in Brixton than in his shop. Had Superintendent Grice been at the Yard, Rollison would have taken a different course; he could talk to Grice off the record and be sure that confidences would be respected, provided the law was not too openly flouted.

A ring at the front door interrupted him.

He opened it, warily, to see a vision in a flowered frock and a wide-brimmed hat, with a radiant smile and a beauty spoiled only by a nose which some called
retrousse.
There were few callers he would have welcomed at that juncture, unless they were concerned in the affair of the harassed curate, but he felt a genuine pleasure at the sight of Isobel Crayne.

“Rolly!” she cried.

“Hal-b!” He took her hand and kissed her on the cheek, which she presented laughingly. Then he held her at arm's length and eyed her with his head on one side and a gay smile in his eyes.

“Yes,” he said at last. “An improvement, even in you! Isobel, it's good to see you!”

“What an ass you are!” said Isobel, allowing herself to be drawn through the hall into the drawing room. She took off her hat and dropped it into an easy chair, looking at him all the time. “How are
you,
Rolly?”

“I
was
jaded,” declared Rollison. “In fact I was wondering how I could cheer myself up and lo! I open the door and a vision enters.”

“Jaded?” asked Isobel, quickly. “Why?”

“Oh, the weather,” began Rollison.

“The weather never worried you yet, and I don't believe it ever will,” said Isobel. “And I don't believe you are ever at a loose end.”

“And I thought you'd come to ask me to take you out to dinner!”

“Well, I haven't, I'm on duty tonight,” said Isobel, “I haven't had an evening free for weeks.”

“Don't rub it in,” said Rollison. “I can't dance attendance on you like your young men, and—”

“Rolly,” said Isobel, still smiling but with a more serious note in her voice, “I'm afraid you'll want to show me the door when I tell you why I've come, but – well, I felt that I had to. It's rather a queer business. Are you very busy?”

“That depends,” said Rollison, “if I can help you in any way I gladly will. I confound you!” He broke off, laughing at her. “I wondered why you spoke up when I said I was jaded, you thought it meant that I'd jump at any excitements you might be able to offer. Isobel, you're too cunning for beauty!”

“Are
you busy?” persisted Isobel.

“It still depends on what you want,” said Rollison.

He poured her out a long drink; the weather was still hot, although cooler than the previous day, and there was a breeze fresh enough to stir the curtains at the windows. A clear blue sky was visible above the house-tops, and just within sight a barrage balloon floated with lazy majesty, as if disdainful of all that went on below.

To some people, Isobel Crayne appeared disdainful, too, for she had a careless manner, at times one almost of condescension; but the Toff knew her for a warm-hearted young woman who did much good privately. She was working for one of the voluntary organizations, and had been doing so since the beginning of the war. Not only did it take up most of her time, but it also cost her a great deal of money.

Abruptly, she said: “I've been working in your favourite hunting ground for some time, Rolly.”

“East of Aldgate Pump?”

“Yes. We've a depot down there.”

“Much good work by the Red Cross?”

Isobel looked at him in astonishment.

“What a hopeless memory you've got! I've told you a dozen times that I do
not
work for the Red Cross. I'm W.V.S., and we're running canteens for dock workers. I can't imagine how you built up such a reputation as a detective, if you forget so easily.”

“I forget what it isn't necessary to remember,” said Rollison, justifying himself urbanely. “Whether you work for the Red Cross, Aid to China, Aid to Russia, Book Salvage, National Savings, Bone Recovery, A.R.P. or any one of a dozen other equally worthy causes doesn't matter; that you do the work matters a great deal.”

“I am not impressed,” said Isobel. “In any case, A.R.P. is now Civil Defence! Are you trying to sidetrack me?”

“Certainly not. I'm waiting patiently for you to get to the point.”

Isobel made a face at him.

“I don't suppose it's anything that would interest you,” she went on, “but if you can possibly look into it, I would be glad. Honestly, I think it's a deserving case. Don't look like that!” she exclaimed, as Rollison's expression grew long-suffering. “It's not a girl who's taken the wrong turning or a father of twelve who's been picking pockets. It's about—” Rollison's expression altered so much that Isobel broke off and stared at him, and then went on: “A young curate, who—”

“Well, well!” exclaimed Rollison, “so Ronald Kemp has a way with him!”

“You
know
about it?” asked Isobel, incredulously.

“I've heard about it,” said Rollison. “And you can set your mind at rest. If the great Richard R. can turn the scales, the scales are in the process of being turned. How did Kemp win you to his side?”

“He doesn't even know my name,” Isobel told him. “I heard him preach in Mayfair some time ago, and he came to the depot the other day, to see if we had a few odds-and-ends that he needed for a rummage sale. Have you met him?”

“Yes.”

“No one should have allowed him to go down there,” declared Isobel. “He's hopelessly out of place. I felt sorry for him the moment I saw him, and in the last day or two I've heard rumours that he's being persecuted. But you probably know all about that?”

“A lot about it,” said Rollison.

“Then I needn't worry anymore.”

“I call that praise indeed,” smiled Rollison. “I say, my sweet,” he went on anxiously, “you haven't been campaigning on Kemp's behalf, have you? I know that crusading heart of yours might have tempted you.”

“I've learned not to interfere with anything that happens, unless it's right under my nose,” said Isobel. “The East Enders take me on sufferance as it is, but if I started to throw my weight about, they'd boycott me. I just felt terribly sorry for Kemp.”

“Don't waste your sympathy,” advised Rollison. “He is either just the man for the district and is getting the corners smoothed off, or else he's a misfit and he'll find that out soon enough.”

“I suppose you're right,” said Isobel, looking at him curiously. “You're much deeper than I realise, sometimes.”

“Thanks,” said Rollison, wryly. “Now – I hate throwing advice about, but don't line yourself up with Kemp just yet on any account. I don't mean that you mustn't be sympathetic if he should come and pour out his troubles, which isn't likely, but don't let yourself be persuaded to take an active interest in the affairs of the parish.”

Isobel's eyes were calm.

“So it's dangerous?” she observed.

“It might be.”

“Look after him,” pleaded Isobel. “He's only a child.”

When she left, Rollison watched her tall graceful figure as she walked towards Piccadilly. She was about Kemp's age, and her: ‘He's only a child,' echoed ironically in his ears.

He left the fiat ten minutes later.

One pressing need was to see Bill Ebbutt, to find out what Bill knew of Keller and why he had been so silent on the telephone. It was a little after half-past six and he hoped to finish with Bill and spend half an hour with Kemp before getting back for a late dinner and, he hoped, Jolly's report.

He went by tube, got out at Whitechapel Station, and walked along Whitechapel Road. Bill's pub, the Blue Dog, was on a corner. Behind it was a large, corrugated iron shed, which served as the gymnasium. The pub was closed, but the gymnasium doors were open. Rollison bunched his fists, thinking that it would do him good to spend half-an-hour sparring with one of the younger men, or else on the medicine ball, but he quickly cast all thought of such frivolities out of his mind.

Near the door, he was aware of loud noises.

His smile broadened; it sounded as if half-a-dozen of Bill's ‘lads' were having a set-to at one and the same time, probably a free-for-all show which Bill had introduced at the urgent request of youths who were looking forward to joining the Commandos and wanted to be able to teach the Army it's job.