John Creasey: The Toff And The Curate

His fine, grey eyes were stormy. He seemed to be fighting to keep a firm hold on himself and his large hands were clenched. He looked at the Toff as if he were sure that his appeal would be turned down.

“It would be a help if I knew what you want me to do,” Rollison said mildly. “I can’t commit myself in advance.”

“I didn’t think it would be any use,” said Kemp, bitterly. “I never did believe in your reputation.”

“Don’t talk like an ass!” said Rollison, sharply enough to startle Kemp into silence. He offered him a cigarette and Kemp took one without shifting his gaze. They lit up and Rollison turned to a corner cupboard.

“Will you have a drink?”

“No, thanks,” said Kemp, and boomed out again: “It’s really serious, Rollison.” Angrily he watched the Toff pouring out whisky and adding soda water.

“Sure you won’t have one?” he asked.

“Well—yes, I will,” said Kemp. He stood with ill-concealed impatience while Rollison rang for Jolly and asked for ice. Rollison sipped the drink appreciatively, while Kemp swallowed half of his in a gulp, then spoke in a more composed voice.

“I’m sorry I let forth like that but I’m worried stiff and I was told you were the only man likely to help me.”

“Exactly what is the trouble?” asked the Toff.

“One of my church members has been charged with murder,” said Kemp, abruptly. “He was arrested a couple of hours ago. I couldn’t make any impression on the police, they practically told me to mind my own business.”

“Either you met a poor policeman,” said Rollison, with a twinkle in his eye, “or else one who didn’t like being told what a fool he was!”

Kemp coloured. “Perhaps I was a bit hot-headed.”

“Who is the accused?” asked Rollison, tactfully.

“A man named Craik,” answered Kemp. “He’s a damned good fellow and I don’t mind admitting that without him I would have been absolutely lost.” He smoothed down his short hair and went on abruptly: “Craik was mixed up in a fight early this evening. One of the men was killed. He’d been stabbed. The police say that the knife was Craik’s.”

“Was it?” inquired Rollison.

“I don’t know but if it was, it was stolen.”

“It might have been,” conceded Rollison. “Do you know what the fight was about?”

“As far as I can gather, there was a lot of foul talk going on, and some of the fellows baited Craik—apparently they didn’t approve of me. I know he shouldn’t have taken it so badly but— well, I don’t believe that he used a knife.”

“So Craik started the fighting,” remarked Rollison.

“I don’t know about that. He answered them pretty stoutly, as far as I can gather, and before anyone knew where he was, the scuffle started. There are dozens of such brawls every night and no one would have thought much about it but for the—er—accident.”

Rollison regarded the young parson thoughtfully.

“I’ll do what I can,” he said, cautiously, “but I must warn you, it’s no use calling murder an accident and no use whitewashing a man because you happen to like him. I don’t say you’re wrong but you’ve got a tough crowd in your parish and you’ll find a streak of violence in unexpected people. Don’t get this thing out of perspective. The English law has a curious habit of doing the right thing in the long run, too.”

Kemp spoke reluctantly.

“I suppose you’re right but—well, what with one thing and another, I feel pretty sore.” Rollison allowed that understatement to pass without comment. “You’re serious?” added the curate, more eagerly. “You will try to help?”

“Yes,” promised Rollison.

“Good man! I—” Kemp looked embarrassed. “I’m afraid I was extremely rude just now.”

“Don’t worry about that,” said Rollison. “Just what do you mean by ‘what with one thing and another’?”

Kemp shrugged his big shoulders.

“Don’t get the idea that I’m complaining,” he said, “I knew that I was going into a pretty hot district. A friend in my previous church suggested it and it rather attracted me. My father is an old friend of Mr Cartwright, too. Since he’s been ill, things have rather run to seed. I’ve been trying to get them going again, but—” he drew a deep breath. “ Can you see the sense in it?” he demanded helplessly.

“In what precisely?” asked Rollison, patiently.

“Breaking up meetings, pilfering from our reserve of old clothes—it seems as if there’s someone in the district who wants to wreck everything we try to do.”

“I see,” said Rollison, and added unexpectedly: “The Devil works hard, doesn’t he?”

Kemp looked startled. “I didn’t expect—” he broke off. When he coloured his fair skin was suffused and he looked like a boy.

“You didn’t expect that kind of talk from me,”

Rollison completed for him. “I don’t see why not. Crime is evil, evil springs from somewhere, why not add the “D”? Where are you living?”

“I’ve converted a room at one of the mission halls,” answered Kemp. “Housing’s still a problem near the docks and I thought I’d be wise to try to manage on my own. Will you come with me?” he added, eagerly. “There are one or two people who saw the fight and you might learn something from them.”

“I won’t come with you,” said Rollison, “but I’ll join you in about an hour’s time. Which hall is it?”

“In Jupe Street. Oughtn’t you to have a guide?”

Rollison chuckled. “I can find my way about! You get back, Kemp, and stop thinking that Craik is half-way to the gallows!”

He ushered the young parson out and, when the door closed, turned to see Jolly approaching from his bedroom where, doubtless, he had been listening.

“I’ve laid out your clothes, sir,” said Jolly. “A flannel suit will be all right, won’t it?”

“Yes, thanks. What do you make of him?”

T think he is in a somewhat chastened mood now, sir, and it should be beneficial,” said Jolly. “It is rather an intriguing story, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Do you know Craik?”

“I seem to have heard the name,” said Jolly. “I think he owns a small general store near St. Guy’s.”

“We’ll know soon,” said Rollison. “Try to get Grice on the “phone, will you? If he’s not at the Yard, try his home. Oh—find out first who arrested Craik.”

“Very good, sir,” said Jolly.

Superintendent Grice of Scotland Yard was neither at the Yard nor at his home—he was away for a few days, on a well-earned holiday. Det Sergeant Bray of the Yard had detained Craik and Inspector Chumley—an easy-going, genial individual from the AZ Division—had charged him.

“A curious mixture,” Rollison reflected, “Bray from the Yard doing work in the Division and handing it over to Chumley. Chumley’s usually all right, although he’s a bit of a smiler. I’ll look in and see him after I’ve been to Jupe Street.”

“Will you want me, sir?” inquired Jolly.

“Come, if you feel like it,” said Rollison, “but I don’t expect much tonight.”

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.”