John Creasey - The Toff And The Curate

Must luck,” said Rollison. “I’d no idea what was happening.”

“I noo it was bound to come,” said Ebbutt, philosophically. He was a large man, running to fat but still very powerful. His features were rugged and battered, for he had spent thirty years in the ring, but his ears were curiously small and well-shaped; it was his dictum that a boxer who allowed himself to get cauliflower ears should take up stone-breaking. “Ho, yes, I noo,” he went on, trying to grin although his mouth was nearly as swollen as his eyes and he uttered the words with great difficulty. “Charlie!”

“Callin’ me?” demanded a little man with enormously wide shoulders.

“Who’d yer think I’m callin’?” growled Ebbutt. “Fetch some beer and glasses, mate, an’ be quick about it. An’ fetch me a coupla pound o’ beefsteak!” he added. “Strewth, Mr Ar, wartime’s a bad time to get a black eye, ain’t it? I don’t know wot my missus will say when she sees me.” He made a brave attempt to wink. “I’d better tell ‘er it was your fault, that’ll keep ‘er quiet!”

He roared again. The beer arrived and the club members, now twenty strong and increasing every minute for an SOS had been sent out when the melee had started, began to drink eagerly. Of the three men who had been knocked out, two had recovered and been literally kicked out of the room; the other was still on the floor, conscious but detained for interrogation. He looked terrified and proved to be genuinely dumb.

The fight had started about a quarter of an hour before Rollison had arrived when only half a dozen “club’ members had been present. The purpose, Ebbutt declared with assurance, had been to beat him up; he didn’t think Rollison would need telling why.

“No,” agreed Rollison. “Keller wants to prise you off the Whitings.”

It had been a likely enough move, although he had not expected one to materialise so quickly. The place had been admirably chosen. A beating-up in the street, by daylight, was a risky business for it might bring the police while after dark Ebbutt always had plenty of men with him. Also, Ebbutt told Rollison, as soon as he had known what the job was, he had locked his door and made sure no one could get in at his window. Because:

“I know somefink about Keller,” he remarked, darkly.

“I hadn’t heard of him until a day or two ago,” said Rollison.

“No more you didn’t want to,” declared Ebbutt. “ ‘E’s a swine, Mr Ar, I don’t mind sayin’ so—he’s a proper swine.”

“How long has he been about?” asked Rollison.

“Three Or four munce,” said Ebbutt. “No, more’n that. Six munce.”

“What’s he up to?”

“No use arstin’ me,” said Ebbutt “I minds me own business, you know that. “E’s a proper swine, Keller is. It’s my business all right now,” he went on and made a comical effort to lick his lips. “I don’t half sting,” he added, and managed to get beer past his lips. “ ‘ave another, Mr Ar?”

“Not yet, thanks,” said Rollison. “Don’t you know anything about Keller’s game?”

“I only knows that he’s got a mob and is runnin’ a racket,” declared Bill, “I dunno what I lie racket is. Tell yer somefing, Mr Ar.”

Rollison waited.

“Tell yer somefing wot will surprise yer,” declared Ebbutt. “ ‘E’s “ad a go at arf a dozen other swine. Blokes I wouldn’t-a’ minded bashin’ meself. Mr Ar, that’s a fact. No business o’ mine, then, seein’ as he was goin’ fer swine. But some of the things ‘e did to them—it would make yer scalp crawl, Mr Ar, it would reely. There was one fella—Tiny Blow, you know Tiny Blow? ‘e was inside fer lootin’,” Rollison nodded. “Well, Tiny come out about four munce ago,” went on Ebbutt. “ ‘E started throwin’ ‘is weight about. Keller hadn’t started, it was the first time I ‘eard of ‘im. I did hear that Tiny started a fight in The Docker and waited fer Lucy—been at The Docker ten yers, Lucy has.” Ebbutt sniffed. “Don’t know that I think much of her but Tiny didn’t ought to ‘ave waited for ‘er. Bad thing for ‘im he did, because four of Keller’s mob was waiting for him. He’s still in the ‘orspital. If it ‘ad been anyone else but Tiny, I woulda’ bin sorry for lm.

“And the other cases have been as bad?”

“More-less,” assented Ebbutt. “Except that I thought he was goin’ too far when he started on this parson bloke, Kemp.” Ebbutt sniffed again. “I got nothin’ against Kemp but he oughta know that he didn’t oughta come down to a place like this. He’s a torf. Don’t take me wrong, Mr Ar!” exclaimed Ebbutt, hurriedly. “I never meant nothin’ personal!”

“No offence taken, Bill!”

“Then that’s all right,” went on Ebbutt but elaborated the point. “I wouldn’t like yer ter think I was bein’ personal, there are torfs an’ torfs .” On the first utterance, he managed to give the word an astonishingly contemptuous ring, on the second one of unveiled admiration. “Well, there you are! When you ask me to lend a “and, I was only too ‘appy, Mr Ar. Funny thing,” he added, reflectively, “I wouldn’t ‘ave expected Kemp to come to you, ‘e looks the kind to run to the dicks.”

“What do you know about Joe Craik?” asked Rollison.

Ebbutt finished his beer, summoned Charlie and demanded a refill, wiped his lips gingerly and then turned his one open eye on Rollison.

“Don’t get me wrong, Mr Ar. There’s persons .in’ persons. Goin’ to church never did no one any “arm wot I can see, except it made hypocrites aht’ve some o’ them. But I’ve “ail some good boys, very good boys, from the church clubs, scouts an’ boys’ brigades an’ tilings. I don’t hold wiv goin’ to church meself, though I don’t mind a good Army meeting sometimes, they’ve got a bit of go, the Army. If it wasn’t for them always “alley uya-ing an’ arskin’ you to confess yer sins up in front’ve everyone, I wouldn’t mind the Army. My own missus wears the uniform,” he added, somewhat shamefacedly.

“She’s got to keep you in line somehow,” said Rollison, lightly.

Ebbutt grinned, then winced.

“Doan “arf sting,” he complained, absently. “Yes, I agree, Mr Ar. She has somefink ter put up wiv’ but wot I was saying is, I’m not perjudiced against churches an’ things. Some persons is sincere, some isn’t, and I ‘aven’t got no time for them that isn’t. But I never bin able to make up me mind about Craik.”

Sooner or later, Bill always got to the point.

“ ‘E’s gotta good business,” he declared, “and he gives his customers fair doos. Ain’t never ‘eard that he’s in the market, ‘e don’t seem ter touch under-cover stuff. But between you an’ me, Mr Ar, I don’t like his face!”

Rollison grinned.

“It ain’t because it’s ugly,” Bill assured him, solemnly, “ ‘E’s got a face as good as the next man but I just never took to it. Thassall I got against Craik. My missus thinks he’s okay.”

“I haven’t seen him yet,” said Rollison. “I’ll tell you what I think about his face when I’ve had a look at it! You know nothing else?”

“Ain’t that enough, Mr Ar?”

“No. I want to find out what Keller is up to.”

Ebbutt deliberated and then opined that, just as Keller’s mob had beaten up “swine,” there was evidence that Keller was putting into effect a widespread but often undeclared antagonism to Ronald Kemp. It was a case of oil and water, Ebbutt declared.

“Does Billy the Bull still come in here?” Rollison asked.

“Every night, faithful. “E’ll be ‘ere soon. On the docks, ‘e is. Maybe ‘e is past ‘is prime,” continued the ex-fighter, a little regretfully, “but there still ain’t a dozen men in England could stand five rounds against Billy the Bull. Why’d you want to know?”