John Creasey - The Toff And The Curate

“Please don’t,” said Craik, quickly. “This has been a lesson to me, I must try to—”

“If you try to reform yourself in five minutes, you’ll slip back further than you were before,” said Rollison. “How long have you been buying this stuff from O’Hara?”

“About four months, I suppose,” said Craik.

“Who did you get it from before that?”

“Another Kelly,” said Craik. “I mean, another Irishman!”

“Do you know where they got it?”

“No, I—I didn’t ask questions,” said Craik and went on in a thin voice: “I knew I was doing wrong but I couldn’t get it no other way. I used to buy it in the West End but when it got short I couldn’t.”

“It’s your problem,” Rollison said. “I’m not your judge. Do you know anyone else who buys it?”

“No,” said Craik, emphatically. “No one knows about it.”

“Then why should they learn?” asked Rollison.

He smiled and left the room.

Someone was putting a piece of board up at the broken window. It was the policeman who appeared to inquire about Craik’s condition and said that two or three things had been stolen when a dozen people had burst into the shop.

“I think it was them kids,” the policeman said. “They take some handling!”

“If they all get handled your way, they’ll be all right,” said Rollison. “I shouldn’t worry Craik just now. He’ll be better tomorrow.”

“What about the door?” asked the policeman.

“We’ll lock it and go out the back way,” said Rollison. “The back door’s got a self-locking Yale.”

When he parted company with the policeman he walked towards the Whitechapel Road, no longer smiling. The bottles were uncomfortable against his sides and once or twice he fingered them.

He did not think he had much further to look for the motive behind the murder; and he came to the conclusion that Jolly had not wasted the previous day. He was very anxious lo talk to Jolly.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

“Very Poor Stuff,” Says Jolly

Jolly sipped at a glass of Joe Craik’s whisky gingerly, ran it about his mouth and swallowed. Despite his caution, he choked. When he had recovered, he looked at Rollison with watery eyes.

“Very harsh liquor indeed, sir.”

“So I think,” said Rollison. “Craik bought it from O’Hara and, before O’Hara, from another Irishman from the colony at the docks. Bootleg liquor, Jolly!”

“You seem almost elated, sir.” Jolly was mildly disapproving. “I am,” said Rollison. “We’ve won half the battle and your journey yesterday was a stroke of genius!”

Jolly looked puzzled.

“Can’t you see why?” asked Rollison.

“I’m afraid I can’t, sir.”

“You’ve been drinking too much fire-water! You followed the pseudo-Keller’s cultured companion about yesterday, didn’t you? And as far as you know, he didn’t realise that he was being followed.”

“I should be very reluctant to think that he had observed me,” said Jolly, with dignity.

“I don’t think he did, otherwise he wouldn’t have gone round booking orders,” said Rollison.

“Booking orders for what?” echoed Jolly. “I must be very obtuse, or—oh, I see, sir!” His eyes grew brighter and took on an eager look. “Would you care to elaborate the point, sir?”

Rollison chuckled.

“Making sure you don’t steal my thunder this time? Yes, I’ll elaborate. The man with the cultured voice went to the various pubs and booked orders for the hooch. His voice would go a long way and he would be a plausible salesman. He made nine calls altogether and if he sold a couple of dozen bottles each time, he didn’t do so badly. That would explain why he made it a pub-crawl under difficulties. We should have suspected something like it last night.”

“We were both very tired,” murmured Jolly.

“Yes. Well, where do we go from here?” When Jolly did not answer, Rollison went on in a thoughtful voice: “We are justified in making some guesses. Kemp told me he is re-opening some of the mission halls which have been closed up for some time. After all, the mob would have to keep the stuff somewhere, wouldn’t it?”

“Naturally, sir.”

“Why not in or beneath one of the mission halls which haven’t been used for some time. A search is indicated! I wish I could get a few days off.”

“Perhaps it is time for you to fall sick, sir,” murmured Jolly. “We’ll see. Meanwhile, I don’t lliink we should move too fast. You’ve got one of the men who matters, the salesman of the outfit. You’d better pick up his trail again— you didn’t find out his name, did you?”

“No, sir,” said Jolly, apologetically.

“You might find out from Bill Ebbutt,” said Rollison. “You told me that your man finished his rounds in the West End, although he started from the East End. There would be a useful market for fire-water in the mushroom clubs, even more so than in suburban pubs.”

“A much readier one, sir, yes.”

“Find him and keep after him but be careful,” urged Rollison. “If they realise we’re after them in earnest, they might get really nasty. If they murdered O’Hara, who obviously talked too freely for their safety, they’ll do anything.”

“Do you think that’s why he was murdered?”

“Probably. He couldn’t resist baiting Craik which was foolish. Craik made out that he started the fight because he was anxious to defend the fair name of Ronald Kemp but actually he was keyed up to a pitch of desperation because he was afraid that O’Hara would taunt him and let Whiting know what was behind it. It looks as if we’re getting along very nicely! Bill Ebbutt was right in his estimate of Joe Craik.”

“And that was, sir?”

“Bill doesn’t like hypocrites,” said Rollison.

“Craik certainly doesn’t impress as a very sincere individual,” murmured Jolly. “Perhaps you have already seen the other possibility, sir?”

“What possibility?”

Jolly looked diffident and coughed slightly before saying:

“I have not had the advantage of seeing Craik in person but he did discover that this whisky was available, didn’t he? He usually bought his supplies in the West End but switched to the East End. The question I ask myself is, how did he know about it? A chance meeting with O’Hara, or any one of the salesmen, would hardly have brought to light the fact that they were selling illicit liquor. Craik’s reputation being what it was, he was not a likely informer. Don’t you agree, sir?” added Jolly, anxiously; for the Toff was looking at him fixedly.

“I do indeed,” murmured Rollison. “I’d missed that one. Craik might know where the stuff is being stored. He might even be conniving at it.”

“It occurred to me as being just possible, sir,” said Jolly, modestly.

“It strikes me as being probable,” declared Rollison. “Nice fellow, Joe Craik—if we’re right.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s getting on for nine. I’ll go over and find these halls and any other places which belong to the church and might be used for warehousing. You can iiy to find out the name of our cultured gentleman. Oh—and see that Craik gets a not tie of real Scotch.”

“Very good, sir.”

“There’s one other thing,” went on Rollison, mhbing his cheek thoughtfully. “The order of I lie day is—be careful.”

“I will, sir.”

“When you look blank like that, you’re usually wondering what I’m talking about,” said Rollison. “I’m not drivelling. Care is essential. Even if we’re right, we haven’t yet discovered where the stuff comes from. The Irish angle might be a blind—these gentry are specialists in diversions, aren’t they? But Jolly, if we’re right—how big is it?”