John Creasey - The Toff And The Curate

Rollison picked himself up slowly, choked by relief. Gradually, he became aware of the footsteps. As soon as one lot faded, another drew nearer: the police were already in the building. He looked about the office and opened one of the ledgers. There were entries for various items of groceries, all neatly written up in a youthful hand. He resisted the temptation to look through the other papers on the desk, not wanting to be caught red-handed. He heard someone banging on a door not far away.

“I wonder how—” he began, then snapped his fingers. “Jolly, of course! He traced Gregson!”

He pulled the ledger towards him. The firm’s name was Mellish and Crow Limited and ccrtainly their business appeared to be genuine. He had a feeling that he had heard of them before but could not keep his mind on the book, just glanced through it, thinking:

“If Gregson hadn’t stopped him, Keller would have shot me. So I owe Gregson my life. Sensible thing to do—with a corpse on the premises he would have been for the high jump. But he was very quick—and Keller didn’t think. Strange metamorphosis, Keller seemed to be the big shot yesterday.”

He stopped, as an entry in the ledger caught his eye.

“Straker . . . £107.11.6d.”

Rollison remembered that was the name of the haulage firm which worked for East Wharf.

The police were making a long and careful job of the building. He wondered if they had found some of the men and whether a fight was in progress.

At last they arrived—and Jolly was with Chumley. Jolly’s eyes brightened at the sight of the Toff. He stepped forward swiftly.

“Are you hurt, sir?”

“Only a scratch and it wasn’t done here,” Rollison said.

“I’m very glad, sir.” Jolly glanced at Chumley whose red face was set, showing nothing of the affability which was his favourite pose. Jolly went on carefully: i knew you were being brought here, sir, and in the circumstances I thought it best to send for assistance.”

“In spite of arousing the interest of the police,” smiled Rollison. “You couldn’t have been more right.”

“I’m glad you realise that, Rollison,” Chumley said sarcastically. “Now perhaps you will stop lying to us. You’ve lied far too much.”

“Not really,” protested Rollison. “Afraid of guessing too much and misinforming you, knowing your dislike of doing the wrong thing! However, it’s a clear-cut issue for the police now. Two men tricked me into a taxi and threatened to kill me unless I withdrew from the district and went back home. They also said that they were indignant that I should try to interfere in a little matter of stolen whisky and its redistribution.”

“Whisky?” echoed Chumley. His interest, already keen, grew sharper.

“Yes. They tried to bribe me with a case of Black and White ,” went on Rollison.

“Have you searched this place?” demanded Chumley.

“No. I haven’t been here for more than five minutes on my own.”

“You can do plenty in five minutes,” declared Chumley, darkly. “Sure you haven’t touched anything?”

“Frisk me,” invited Rollison, throwing out his arms in an exaggerated gesture. “I won’t make any complaint about illegal searching. Even if I’d had the time to touch anything,” he added, still standing with his arms stretched out, “I wouldn’t have had the inclination.”

“Why not?” demanded Chumley.

“I can’t imagine that they would have brought me to a place which, if afterwards located, might yield up its deadly secrets,” Rollison said lightly, it wouldn’t surprise me to find that the premises belong to some estimable firm, the management of which will be horrified to discover what’s going on at night.”

“We’ll find out,” said Chumley and ordered his men to begin searching.

Jolly found a first aid box in a cloak-room and dabbed iodine freely on Rollison’s scratch, fixing lint and adhesive plaster over it and rebuking him for not having attended to it before.

Chumley pressed questions and he told the simple truth, giving the names by which he knew the two men and omitting only that he had known before of the whisky motive. Had Chumley been his usual genial self, Rollison would have been tempted to be more frank. As it was, the policeman became more terse and nearly abusive.

Rollison, smoking and sitting on an upright chair, stared at him coldly.

“I’m beginning to understand why Kemp got such a low opinion of the police,” he said.

Chumley bit his lips and turned away.

Inside an hour, a representative of the management arrived. He was an old, grey-haired, mild-mannered man, at first indignant at the police invasion, then apologetic and obviously puzzled. Thus he laid himself open to some of Chumley’s ‘pressure.’ Rollison stood by and did nothing and Chumley began to raise his voice.

The grey-haired man stood it for some minutes, seeming to grow flustered but, when Chumley called him a liar, he spoke with unexpected sharpness.

“Are you a police officer, sir, or merely an ill-mannered ruffian?”

Rollison caught Jolly’s eye. Chumley calmed down but asked more questions. Nothing the man said and nothing that was discovered suggested that the warehouse was being used as a storage place for whisky and the indications were that it had been used, as Rollison had suggested, as a meeting place. The night-watchman stoutly maintained that he knew nothing about it but he cracked unexpectedly. ‘They’ had made him do it, he declared; ‘they’ had threatened him with violence unless he let them in. ‘They’ had been using the office from time to time over a period of six months. He did not know why and he did not know their names but he knew that a number of people called there to see them.

It was three in the morning before Chumley conceded that there was no need to stay longer.

Walking up the stairs to the flat, Rollison limped noticeably and, when they were inside, Jolly said:

“I think you’d better spend a day in your room tomorrow, sir. Your leg might get much worse.”

“Day in bed be—” began Rollison, then saw Jolly’s expression and grinned. “A day not in the office! Yes, that’s more like it! Are you forgetting that I’m a Whitehall Warrior deeply involved in the conduct of the war?”

“I would rate this affair somewhat higher than investigating the pilfering of Army depots,” murmured Jolly.

“Well, well!” exclaimed Rollison. “How did you manage to find that out? You’d located Gregson, I suppose, and managed to keep behind the taxi?”

“I was nearby, sir, and I heard someone mention the warehouse address, so I telephoned Chumley immediately and hurried there myself. I thought it unwise to try to prevent you from entering the taxi. Had I done so we might not have learned so much.”

“No,” admitted Rollison. “This is certainly your day. By George, I’m tired!” He stubbed out a cigarette. “It’s a pity but I must go to the office in the morning. There’s a Conference of Great Men.”

“At what time, sir?” asked Jolly.

“Eleven o’clock,” said Rollison.

It was ten o’clock next morning when Jolly called him. Rollison looked at his watch, stared at Jolly and was told mildly:

“I think you have good time for the Conference, sir.”

Although his leg was stiff, he felt rested and much more able to cope with the pretentious big brass who were to sit with him round a horseshoe-shaped table and discuss the matter of pilfering from Army depots. Although the pilfering reached alarming proportions and needed close investigation, Rollison disagreed with the attempt to solve it under central direction. As soon as the problem was solved in one place, it broke out in another. He did not agree that it was organised but that, being so spasmodic, it was purely local. Since his particular task was less concerned with stopping the trouble than with arriving at the totals of material and value lost, his heart was not in it and he made frequent attempts to get transferred to another Department; he had almost given up the hope of getting back to active service.