John Creasey - The Toff And The Curate

“Good!” said Rollison. “What business? Whisky?”

“Now you’re getting interesting,” said Grice. “What do you know about the whisky-running?”

“Very little,” answered Rollison, cautiously. “I didn’t believe Gregson when he told me that he was stealing a few cases and passing them on at a profit. I think it goes deeper. Does it?”

“Now you’re asking,” Grice said.

Rollison took out his cigarette-case and lit a cigarette—Grice rarely smoked—and carefully replaced the case. After that, he contemplated Grice in silence for some minutes before saying, quietly:

“You and I needn’t beat about the bush, need we?”

“What really took you to Whitechapel in the first place?” asked Grice.

“Kemp! Just Kemp! Nothing but Kemp! He was getting a raw deal and he’s still in danger, perhaps deadlier than before. So I’m still interested.” Rollison spoke quietly but emphatically. “I think he’s stumbled across a whisky-racket but I know nothing beyond that and I’m not going to theorise for Chumley, you, or the AC himself. The truth is,” went on Rollison, warming up, “that as soon as the word ‘whisky’ was mentioned Chumley pricked up his ears and, before I could turn round, you’d cut short your holiday. Presumably, you were working on it before, decided you could take a holiday but came haring back as soon as you knew that trouble had broken out about it.”

Grice’s manner relaxed.

“You’re pretty well on the mark, Rolly. But the thing I find it hard to believe and which Chumley refuses to accept is that you went down to Whitechapel on Kemp’s behalf alone. Was it partly because you’d been working on the case elsewhere and found a lead.”

“It was not. Where do you imagine I would have started?”

“I wouldn’t try to guess,” said Grice.

“This last day or two I’ve guessed that there is a lot of hooch being distributed throughout the West End,” said Rollison. “Is there?”

Grice leaned forward and spoke with unexpected warmth.

“There is, and it’s not ordinary hooch. Much of it is poison. We’ve had complaints from our own service authorities, from the Americans and from several of the Allied Governments— officers and men in London on leave have drunk the stuff and made themselves ill. There have been two fatalities due to acute alcoholic poisoning. The deaths were directly attributable to the whisky. Do you mean to tell me that you didn’t know?”

“Of course. I wouldn’t have been working overtime if I had. Do you mind if I use your telephone?” Grice looked puzzled but shook his head and Rollison put a call through to his office. In a few seconds, a weary Bimbleton answered him.

“Bimble, old chap,” said Rollison, “have you heard about complaints in high places of some of our chaps suffering severely from drinking bad whisky in the West End?”

“Yeh,” said Bimbleton and then articulated more clearly:

“Why, yes, Rollison. I’m sorry. I was just eating a sandwich.”

“Who is handling it?” asked Rollison. “The drink, not the sandwich.”

“Cracknell,” Bimbleton said.

“Is he on duty, do you know?”

“No, he’s left I think—no, wait a minute! [ saw him coming in half an hour ago.”

“Put me through to him, will you?” asked Rollison and sat back, beaming at Grice, who looked a little less mystified. Soon, a crisp voice sounded in Rollison’s ear and Rollison introduced himself with some circumspection.

“Yes, Rollison,” said Cracknell, who carried much weight at Whitehall. “. . . What’s that? . . . Yes, it is quite true . . . Are you sure?”

“I’m quite sure, sir,” Rollison assured him. “I think, with a little luck, we could see the end of it inside a week. The difficulty is that I’m so tied to the office.”

“This isn’t some pet scheme of your own for which you want leave, is it?” demanded Cracknell, suspiciously.

“I’m in the office of Superintendent Grice, of Scotland Yard,” Rollison told him. “He asked me to see him about this very business.”

“I’ll do what I can to arrange for you to be assigned to it,” Cracknell promised.

“Thanks very much,” said the Toff, warmly. “I take it that it is regarded seriously?”

“Extremely so,” said Cracknell but there was an echo of laughter in his voice. “Why do you ask?”

“If it’s a matter of urgency, I shouldn’t waste any time,” said Rollison.

“You can consider yourself assigned to it,” said Cracknell and rang off; the last Rollison heard from him was the beginning of an explosive laugh.

As Rollison replaced the receiver, Grice said: “One day, you’ll wheedle yourself into active service again, I can see it coming. Then what will we poor flatfoots do at Scotland Yard?”

“Wheedle me back!” replied Rollison. “Grice, you couldn’t have done me a better service and Jolly will probably send you a congratulatory telegram! I am now working on this job in an official capacity and, while I am fully prepared to co-operate with the police, I must reserve the right to act as I think best in the interests of men and women of the services who, in their all-too-brief spells of leave, are being raddled with a fire-water sold under the name of whisky, and—”

“That’s enough!” cried Grice. “Well, exactly how much do you know?”

Rollison passed on the whole story. Grice made notes on a pad and, when Rollison had finished, they eyed each other thoughtfully. It was Grice who broke the silence.

“Do you think it would be wrong to try to force the case in Whitechapel just yet?”

“Yes. Don’t you?”

“Probably,” admitted Grice, “although it can’t be left too long. We’ll have to get Gregson and the man who calls himself ‘Keller’ as soon as we can. Chumley has descriptions of them and is already hard at work.”

“I doubt whether he’ll get them,” said Rollison. “My worry is—where is it distributed from in the West End? Have you found any store-places at all?”

“One or two small ones,” said Grice. “It doesn’t appear to be delivered in large quantities, only a few dozen at a time. We’ve found seven or eight retail suppliers. All of them swear that they buy it legally and believe that it is ordinary stuff—the story is so circumstantial in every case that it seems as if the organisers use a formula.”

“They’re not associated clubs, are they?”

“No, they’re all quite independent.”

“Then if they use a formula, it’s one which they’re told to use by the suppliers,” said Rollison. “What’s the story? The bottles of bad stuff were found among deliveries from the reputable companies.”

“Yes?”

“And the reputable companies know nothing about it, of course,” went on Rollison. “How long has it been worrying you?”

“For the better part of six months.”

“It all seems to have started about six months ago,” admitted Rollison, looking very thoughtful. “You remember that I told you that Irish dock-workers were concerned?”

“Yes. I’ll look into that angle.”

“Not a bad idea,” said Rollison. “Well, we’re making progress of a kind. The main trouble is that I’ve started working from the wrong angle. They may distribute it in small quantities but there appears to be a lot of it about. Given much thought to distribution?”

“Yes,” said Grice.

He did not enlarge and so gave Rollison the impression that he was holding something back. Rollison did not attempt to force any information but went on thoughtfully:

“East Wharf might possibly be the distributing point as there’s a lot of quite legitimate stuff brought in—does any of it come from Eire, do you know?”