John Creasey - The Toff And The Curate Страница 2

They set out together and were lucky in finding a taxi in Piccadilly with a driver who put himself at their disposal for the night.

“I ‘ope that’s long enough, sir,” he said out of the darkness. “If it isn’t, I’ll pay you overtime,” promised Rollison and was rewarded by gusty laughter and the comforting knowledge that he had put the man in a good humour.

Jolly opened the windows to admit a cool, welcome breeze. “I wonder how the bellicose curate is getting on?” said Rollison, sotto voce. “Did you or did you not take to him, Jolly?”

“I did rather, sir, yes.”

“If you hadn’t, you wouldn’t have admitted him,” said Rollison. “But I doubt whether you could have kept him out. That young man is militant-minded and he seems to be getting a raw deal.”

“I expect he has invited it,” murmured Jolly, primly. “I can’t imagine the people near the docks taking kindly to being driven by a parson.”

“No. And he would try to drive,” mused Rollison. The journey took a little more than half an hour. On the last lap, Jolly had to direct the driver to Jupe Street, a narrow thoroughfare leading off Whitechapel Road. The Mission Hall was at the far end. They passed row upon row of mean houses and some bare patches and did not see any light until the taxi stopped. Then a streak of light from an open door shone right across an alleyway.

“Tell ‘em to put that light aht,” growled the driver. Rollison and Jolly hurried down the alley to the door and, as they drew nearer, they caught sight of Kemp standing just inside the room.

Jolly stood outside the door as Rollison went in.

Kemp must have heard him but did not turn round.

He was standing quite still, his chin thrust forward and his face set. He was looking at the wreckage of chairs and forms and benches, curtains and pictures. The hall was not a large one and at the far end was a stage with doors on either side; they were open and inside both rooms Rollison saw further upheaval. Whoever had been here had worked with frenzied malice. Most of the chairs were broken, the side walls had been daubed with white and brown paint and, on the wall behind the stage, written in badly-formed letters in red paint, were the words:

Clear out, Kemp. We don’t want yore kind ere.

CHAPTER TWO

EVIDENCE OF MALICE

“Who is that?” asked Kemp, without looking round. “Rollison,” said Rollison. “Oh.” The younger man turned slowly and looked into the Toff’s face. His own held a curiously drawn expression—as if the past hour had put years on to his life. “Someone doesn’t like me,” he said, harshly. “That can cut both ways,” said Rollison, lightly.

He wanted to see how the other would react and watched him carefully. After a long pause, during which his face was quite blank except for the glitter in his eyes, Kemp’s lips began to curve.

“You’re a good cure for depression,” he said, in a lighter voice. I was to have met two parishioners here. Instead, the door was open and, when I switched on the light, this is what I found. They’ve made a thorough job, haven’t they?”

“Not bad,” admitted Rollison, “but there isn’t much that can’t be repaired, as far as I can see, so perhaps they want to keep you busy. Who were the two people whom you expected to be waiting for you?”

“A Mr and Mrs Whiting,” Kemp said, absently. “Probably they got scared and I can’t blame them. I shouldn’t imagine I’m going to have many friends in the near future!” The edge was back in his voice as he proffered cigarettes. Rollison took one.

“You don’t know your people yet,” he said. “Those who were lukewarm towards you before will now rally round and people who’ve never set foot in the church will probably come in on your side. You’ve a chance in a thousand, if you’ll take it.”

Kemp looked at him incredulously.

“Are you serious?”

“Yes,” said Rollison, “I’ve been acquainted with these people for years and I don’t think you need worry about lacking friends—you can count on it that those who aren’t for you now are against you, which will be a help.” He stepped to the door and called Jolly, who entered without a change of expression; he bowed to Kemp. “Move around a bit, Jolly,” said Rollison, “and try to find out something about this. Freddie Day might have heard a whisper, or else—”

“I think I know whom to approach, sir,” said Jolly, faintly reproachful.

Rollison grinned. “So you should! If I’m not here when you’ve finished, I’ll leave a message.”

“Very good, sir.” Jolly went out and Kemp’s gaze followed him, as if he were too good to be true.

“Who is Eddie Day?” he asked.

“Freddie,” corrected Rollison. “He’s the manager of the pub on the corner of Jupe Street.”

Kemp frowned. “I don’t know the licensed victuallers.”

Rollison stared. “The—” he chuckled and went on jocularly: “If you call pub-keepers licensed victuallers, you’ll make your people think they’ve got to learn a new language—it would be easier for you to learn theirs!” When Kemp looked slightly shocked, he went on in a sharper voice: “The pubs are part of your parish, aren’t they?”

“Yes,” admitted Kemp, uncomfortably, “but I—er—I—I always thought—”

“That they were dens of vice and iniquity in the East End,” said Rollison. “Yes, I suppose you would but the quicker you get the idea out of your head, the better. You’ll find the good as well as the bad go regularly for their pint and if you try to make ‘em give it up, you’ll come a cropper. None of which is my business, strictly speaking,” he added, more lightly. “This job is. Have you got anything in mind?”

“I suppose I’d better tell the police,” said Kemp, slowly.

“Why such reluctance?”

“I didn’t get on with them very well before,” said Kemp. “I mean, about Craik.”

“If that were the only reason, I’d say go to see them,” said Rollison. “But it might be a good idea not to tell them yet. They’ll hear about it but unless you approach them officially, they’ll do nothing. If you ask them to investigate, they’ll probably start a round-up and they might pick up half a dozen of the people concerned but your stock would go down with a bump.”

“I wish I could understand you,” said Kemp, after a short pause.

“Taken by and large,” said Rollison, “East Enders don’t like the police. Oh, they rub shoulders and get along all right but it’s an uneasy peace. A man who runs to the police if he’s been beaten up or had his pocket picked doesn’t win much favour but if he finds out who does it and repays him in kind, that’s a different story.”

“Confound it, I can’t go round wrecking people’s homes!”

“Need you take me so literally?” asked Rollison. “Ever done any boxing, Kemp?”

“A bit, at Oxford,” Kemp answered.

“I thought you looked as if you could pack a punch.”

“I suppose you do realise that I’m—”

“A parson, yes. Is that any reason why you shouldn’t behave like a human being?” asked Rollison. “You want to get on top of this trouble and you want the people friendly, don’t you?”

Kemp said: “Yes.” He spoke with restraint, as if he had difficulty in preventing himself from saying just how badly he wanted both those things.

“Then give my way a trial,” advised Rollison. “You’ll soon find out if it flops.” He stepped forward towards the stage and looked at the writing thoughtfully, murmuring: “A nice taste in capitals. Now, let’s get busy,” he said more briskly. “It’s personal but it isn’t aimed at you because you’re Ronald Kemp, recently from Oxford and trying to muscle in on a new district. It’s because of something you’ve done or you want to do, which is upsetting someone’s applecart. Have you any ideas about it?”

“Not the faintest!”

“Try to think some up,” urged Rollison. “Go over everything that’s happened since you arrived and find out whose corns you’ve trodden on. What kind of reforms have you tried to start?” he added drily. “You haven’t seriously had a shot at turning the pagans teetotal, have you?”

“Great Scott, no! I don’t know that I’ve done anything that could offend anyone,” Kemp went on worriedly. “I’ve started one or two of the mission halls going again, there hadn’t been any meetings or social evenings for some time. And I’ve tried to step up the collection of old clothes for some of the poorer people. Do you think they resent that kind of charity?”

“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.