John Creasey - The Toff And The Curate

“You know very well it is.”

“I certainly share it,” said Jolly, warmly. “I must say that I think it a great pity, Mr Kemp—”

“You needn’t worry about Kemp,” said Rollison, with satisfaction.

“I don’t understand you, sir.”

Tonight, he lasted nine rounds against Billy the Bull and four thousand people saw him. Forty thousand know about it by now. If you’re thinking of going to St Guy’s on Sunday, you’d better reserve a pew!”

“Mr Kemp —and Billy the Bull?” gasped Jolly.

“So you can be surprised,” said Rollison, cheerfully.

“But I can’t believe it, sir! How could such a contest be arranged? How on earth did Mr Kemp realise the possibilities of such a— oh, I see , sir! You had a hand in it!”

He broke off and they began to laugh. When they sobered up Jolly told his story.

He had made some fruitless inquiries during the morning and had then gone to the dockside pub, The Docker, understanding that one of the men whom Rollison had caught the previous night had said that Keller had once lived there. Jolly had seen the man with the cultured voice coming out and had decided to follow him.

The unknown had gone first to Barking, where he had had lunch in a small coffee-shop, and then made his way by bus to Loughton, where he had paid a visit to an inn, then gone from Loughton to Epping which was not far away. There he had had a drink at another pub and visited two more before he had returned, on the last bus, to London. There the black-out had swallowed him up, near Piccadilly.

“A protracted pub-crawl,” said Rollison. “But you’ve made a note of the names of the pubs and other places he called at, I hope?”

“I noted each one down, sir.”

“Good!” said Rollison, briefly. “Now to bed, Jolly.”

“I hope we are not disturbed, sir,” said Jolly. “But for that coffee, I would have had great difficulty in keeping awake.” He stifled a yawn, apologised, and asked Rollison what he intended to do next day.

“In the evening, I hope to see Joe Craik,” said Rollison. “Two things to ponder, Jolly. The warning to Kemp was misspelt, a ‘here’ without its aspirate and other glaring errors but ‘clear’ spelt correctly and not with the double-ee which might have been expected. Would a man who knew where to put commas fail to know where to put an ‘h’?”

“It isn’t likely, sir. It was a further attempt to confuse, perhaps?”

“As with Joe Craik’s knife,” said Rollison.

He was soon asleep in bed and was woken up by Jolly at a quarter-to eight.

After a long day at the office, without being interrupted by the more pressing affair, he learned from Jolly that no one had telephoned the flat. He went to the East End.

Kemp was in high spirits when he arrived and appeared to regard him as a worker of miracles.

“Because Craik’s been released?” asked Rollison. “Don’t thank me, thank the police. What kind of a day have you had?”

Kemp, his one open eye bright, drew in his breath.

“The whole atmosphere has changed. I haven’t seen so many smiles or been asked how I am so often in all my life! Now that is a miracle, Rolly, and you can’t deny that you’re responsible for it! I know you fixed the fight with Billy the Bull; I wish I could say thanks.”

Rollison eyed him reflectively.

“Odd fellow,” he announced, after a pause. “I don’t work miracles. Nor do you. But they happen. Curious, isn’t it? Now I’m going to see Joe Craik!”

He left Kemp staring with a startled expression and walked along towards Craik’s shop. On the way, a large number of people hailed him.

Outside Craik’s shop, a little woman was tapping at the door. Looking round at Rollison, she said:

“S’funny thing, ‘e said ‘e’d be open until seven o’clock. It’s funny. Joe don’t orfen let yer down.”

She tapped again but got no response. Rollison’s smile faded and he stood back, the better to survey the shop and to see the closed first-floor windows above the weather-beaten facia board across which was written ‘ Joe Craik, Groceries, Provisions’. The shop windows were freshly dressed with tins of goods on points, all carefully docketted, and it was impossible to see inside the shop.

“I don’t know that I like this,” said Rollison. “Does he live on his own?”

“Yerse.”

“What about his wife?”

“ ‘E’d be a long way from ‘ere if ‘e lived wiv ‘er,” declared the woman with a wide grin. “She’s bin dead these ten years, mister! ‘ere! Wotcher doing?”

He could smell gas coming from above his head; it was too strong for him to be mistaken.

Rollison hunched a shoulder and thrust it against the glass panel of the shop door which was pasted over with advertising bills. After three attempts, the glass broke. Rollison ignored the curious glances of passers-by who promptly became spectators as he removed a large piece of glass and put his hand inside and opened the door.

As he stepped inside, a uniformed constable came up.

CHAPTER TEN

Joe Craik In Person

No one was in the shop.

There was a smell of bacon and fat, although everything looked scrupulously clean, and the floor was covered with sawdust. Goods were piled high on the shelves, neatly ticketed. Rollison glanced round and then looked behind the counters.

The constable came in.

“What—” he began, and then recognised Rollison. “I say, sir!” he exclaimed.

Rollison smiled at him fleetingly.

“I’m looking for Craik,” he said, opening a door which led to an over-furnished, drably decorated parlour. This was empty, too. He went through into the kitchen but no one was there.

The stairs led from a tiny passage between the shop and the parlour. Rollison mounted the stairs quickly but hesitated when he reached the landing. There were three doors, all closed.

From one there came the strong smell of gas.

Rollison looked into the empty rooms before finding that the third door was locked. It was a thin, freshly-painted one with a brass handle. Rollison put his shoulder against it and heaved; it was easy to break open. As he staggered forward, the smell of gas was very strong.

“You all right up there, sir?” called the constable.

“Yes!” gasped Rollison, stifling a cough. He hurried across the room, holding his breath, and caught a glimpse of the man on the bed; frightened eyes stared at him. He flung up the one, large window and drew in a deep breath of fresh air.

A crowd had gathered outside and some were standing on the opposite side of the road, gazing at the place.

He turned round; the man on the bed held a length of rubber tubing in his hand and from it there came the faint hiss of escaping gas. Rollison saw that the other end of the tube was connected with the gas bracket. He reached up and turned it off. The little, frightened eyes watched every movement; Joe Craik reminded him of nothing more than a scared rabbit.

Rollison reached his side, making him cringe back, and lifted him from the bed, saying in a low voice:

“Keep quiet, if you want to stop a scandal.”

Craik muttered something that was inaudible.

Rollison kicked a chair into position and sat the man on it in front of the window—he could not be seen from outside.

“Stay there,” exhorted Rollison.

He went into the other bedroom and opened the windows, then went downstairs. The policeman had his hands full for two urchins were standing and grinning at him, one of them holding a tin of beans in grubby hands. Three people had entered the shop in addition to the woman and dozens of curious faces peered through the doorway.

“Put it down and be off with you!” the policeman said to the child, is it all right upstairs, sir?”