John Creasey - The Toff And The Curate

Rollison forced himself to reply:

“Accommodating of you. You’re well-equipped, aren’t you? Am I going to hear more about my own back-yard?”

“That’s enough of that!” snapped ‘Keller.’

He was keeping in the background, the role of spokesman had been switched; Rollison wondered who was really the leader.

He should have been prepared for such an attack. Had the taxi been waiting, he would have wondered whether it had been there fortuitously but, as it had been moving away after dropping a fare, he had not thought twice about it. The incident had been very well-planned.

The only consolation lay in the fact that they still seemed disposed to reason.

The taxi was driving through the back streets of the East End. It had turned round outside the station and was heading further east; he thought they were near the docks. He saw an occasional passer-by from the glow of a cigarette in the darkness. His breathing was easier and he was beginning to feel more capable of tackling the situation.

“You aren’t feeling so clever, are you?” sneered Gregson. “You think you’re a lot smarter than you are, Rollison. If there was anything in your reputation, you wouldn’t have fallen for this trick.”

Rollison said heartily: i couldn’t agree more!”

The man exclaimed “What?” and fell silent. The taxi was going over a cobbled surface which was a further proof that they were in the dockside area.

“You’d better agree with me again,” Gregson said. “You’ve gone far enough. Who told you about the whisky?”

“Whisky?” ejaculated Rollison.

“Come on, you know all about that,” said Gregson.

“Don’t you know about it?”

“Gregson, he—” began ‘Keller.’

“I didn’t know it was a whisky racket,” declared Rollison and then went on in a wondering voice: “I thought it was something big!” He gave a hollow laugh and wondered if he were overdoing it. There was a startled silence, followed by an oath from Keller.

“Then what the hell are you after?”

“I’m simply helping Kemp,” said Rollison, truthfully.

“You’re helping that—” Keller broke off, with an exasperated note in his voice. “He’s been fooling us,” he growled. “We needn’t have worried about him.”

“Who’s worried?” asked Gregson but he sounded uneasy. “All right, so you didn’t know. We hijacked a few bottles of booze,” he went on, too quickly. “We thought you knew about it.”

Rollison said ruefully: “I could do with a small crate myself.”

The taxi came to a standstill as he spoke.

Any hopes of breaking away were dashed at once for the door was opened by a man outside. As he climbed out, Rollison’s wrist was gripped and he saw other shadowy figures crowding round. The man already holding him took a grip on the back of his neck and pushed him forward. He stumbled over a doorstep and along an unlighted passage: there was a faint glow of light at the far end.

“Stop, cully,” ordered his captor.

He stopped. The front door closed and a light was switched on. Three men were in the passage, besides ‘Keller’ and Gregson. They were characteristic East Enders of the tougher breed.

The passage had green distempered walls, the floor was of unstained boards and it looked like part of a warehouse. Soon Rollison was in an office which might have been that of any business firm; his eye was caught by a fine Mirzapore carpet with a round hole in the middle with its edges bound.

Gregson pushed past him and sat at a roll-top desk. Keller also sat down and one of the men stood by the door; the others went out. Gregson, his handsome face clear-cut beneath the light from an unshaded lamp, stared at him, tight-lipped. ‘Keller’s’ brown eyes were narrowed and he seemed much more on edge than the other.

“Well, Rollison?” Gregson spoke at last. “Are you going to be sensible about this?”

“That depends what you call sensible,” said Rollison.

“It’s none of your business. Kemp’s all right now, we couldn’t run him out of the district if we tried, so we won’t waste our time trying.” Apparently he took it for granted that Rollison had assumed the crane incident to be an accident. “You’ve done what you started out to do and we’re doing no one any harm. If you’ll undertake to go back to your flat and forget about us, we’ll let you go. And we’ll give you a dozen Black and White into the bargain!”

As he finished Gregson smiled, invitingly.

“Well, it’s an attractive proposition,” admitted Rollison. “But you aren’t fools, are you?”

“You’ll find out,” growled ‘Keller.’

“Be quiet,” ordered Gregson. “No, we’re not fools, Rollison.”

“So I imagined. What’s to prevent me from giving you a promise and then breaking it?”

“I told you—” ‘Keller’ began.

“Oh, be quiet!” repeated Gregson harshly. “We know you might do that, Rollison but, if you do—well, you know what happened to O’Hara.”

“Yes. Intimidating,” murmured Rollison. “The thing is, I’m not convinced that you’re resigned to Kemp staying on. I mean, what happened to O’Hara could easily happen to him.”

“Now look here,” said Gregson, still reasoningly, “if we were to kill Kemp, or even you, the police wouldn’t rest until they’d turned Whitechapel upside down. We don’t want them to do that. This is the reasonable way. You’re a man of the world. It doesn’t matter to you if a few cases of whisky get stolen and sold at a good profit. That’s what we’re doing—but it’s a dangerous game these days. We’d be charged with black-marketing and we might get seven years. That’s enough to make us careful—and to shut the mouth of talkers like O’Hara.”

“So O’Hara talked too much,” said Rollison.

“He couldn’t keep his mouth shut when he’d had a couple,” said Gregson. “It was a coincidence that Craik was there when he was killed.”

“And an accident that Craik’s knife was used?”

“It didn’t matter who’s knife, so long as it didn’t belong to the man who actually used it,” said Gregson. “O’Hara was nothing to you, Rollison. He was an Irishman who’s only been here six months and he’s a loss to no one. He wasn’t even married! Listen to me. We’ve heard a lot about you. Perhaps you’re good and you’ve just been unlucky this time. It doesn’t matter either way. You aren’t a fool, either. This job isn’t one you need worry about, so forget all about it and go home and enjoy yourself with free Black and White.”

“Genuine stuff?” inquired Rollison.

He wanted Gregson to continue to reason with him for it gave him more time to size up the situation. There was a snag, they surely wouldn’t let him go.

What would they do?

“Of course it’s genuine,” said Gregson. “I wouldn’t cheat—”

Heavy footsteps in the passage outside cut across his words. Rollison thought he heard a shout. ‘Keller’ glanced towards the door as it burst open and a man rushed in.

“Get away!” he gasped and paused for breath. “The cops are outside!”

‘Keller’ swung round towards Rollison and pulled a gun from his pocket.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

THE INTEREST OF THE POLICE

Rollison, expecting to be shot, dropped to the floor, keeping his eyes on ‘Keller.’ There was no time even to grab at one of the ledgers on the desk to use as a missile. It seemed like his last moment.

Then Gregson struck ‘Keller’s’ arm aside.

Gregson said nothing but simply grabbed ‘Keller’s’ arm and hustled him forward. The man by the door and the messenger were already in the passage.

Gregson slammed the door and turned the key on the outside.