John Creasey - The Toff And The Curate

“Some, yes,” said Grice cautiously. “But most Irish goods come in at the West coast ports. Some shipments come direct to London but if you’re thinking that the stuff is Irish whisky, you’re—”

Rollison laughed.

“Don’t insult the Irish distillers. But where are there as many illicit stills as in Ireland? If a manager or foreman of a wharf co-operated, it might be brought off the ships.”

“There’s no evidence that it is and I think it’s made in England,” Grice said.

“You’re probably right,” admitted Rollison. “However, supposing it is brought in at East Wharf, what happens to it then? It could be loaded straight on to the lorries and—”

He paused.

“Now what’s in your mind?” demanded Grice.

“I was picturing a charming little scene at the wharf,” said Rollison. “A big Irishman ribbed an English docker who promptly called him a neutral and started a free fight. All without malice as far as I could see. But as soon as it had stopped—the foreman handled it well— the combatants were put on to loading the same lorry. They must have been in a big hurry to get the lorry loaded and off.”

“Why?” asked Grice.

“You know, you’re not really as dull as this! The obvious reason would be to get whatever they were loading en route before the police arrived. Police would be bound to arrive on the scene as soon as word of the accident reached them, wouldn’t they?”

“Do you think East Wharf should be raided?”

“Certainly not just now!” exclaimed Rollison. “If there’s anything in the idea, the stuff has been sent away and we’d only put them on their guard. You might care to find out if that was an Irish ship, though, and keep some eyes open when the next one comes in from Eire. A suggestion only!” he added, mildly.

“I know all about your suggestions,” said Grice. “It’s a good one, anyhow.”

“Thanks. Do you know your Sergeant Bray very well?”

“Fairly well,” said Grice, cautiously.

“Is he as hot-headed as he seems? I gathered that he made the arrest a little precipitately.”

“He was right to act as he did and also right to take Craik to Divisional headquarters. Bray’s a good chap. He might have made a mistake but, if you’re asking me whether I propose to reprimand him for this, I’m not.”

“I should hope not!” exclaimed Rollison. “Er—Chumley was spry, too, wasn’t he?”

“Chumley is spry,” said Grice, quietly.

Rollison raised an eyebrow.

“Like that, is it? I was mistaken, I always thought he was one of the better men in the division but he’s showing unsuspected qualities of slyness, too. I suppose he wants to keep the glory in the Division?”

Grice made no comment.

“It’s a thousand pities that you can’t be frank, by reason of the rules and regulations,” Rollison remarked.

Grice smiled and said gently:

“There are no rules and regulations binding you!”

“True,” admitted Rollison. “But then, I’m nearly always frank with you! It’s certainly a pity that we can’t make a completely fresh start in this business. Seeing that I am in on the ground floor, why not let me have my head without base suspicions of personal motives and dark whisperings about being unorthodox?”

“In other words, will the police authorise you to continue to work your own way!”

“Wrong,” murmured Rollison. “Will the police authorise the Military Authorities?”

Grice was still smiling, in spite of his sunburn and his reticence, when Rollison left his office.

Rollison felt very much more cheerful as he hurried to Gresham Terrace and regaled Jolly with the news.

“And what will you do now, sir?” asked Jolly, obviously pleased.

“I’ll see Cobbett,” said Rollison. “You’d better have a look round the clubs in the Mayfair area. Don’t be too obvious but try to find out whether Gregson has been an intermediary or our man with the big brown eyes. Failing either, try to find out who has been peddling it in this part of the world.”

“Very good, sir,” said Jolly, who was used to attempting the impossible but never complained for Rollison never asked him to attempt what he would not try himself.

Still in a good humour, Rollison left the flat before his man, remembering that he had not yet had dinner. He had missed it two nights running and decided that he could safely afford an hour at his club. He managed to get a single table and thus avoided conversation. Soon after nine o’clock, he was on his way to the home of Cobbett the crane-driver. There, he was told by a sharp-voiced, middle-aged woman—his mother—that Cobbett had not been in all day and she had no idea where he might be found if not at The Docker. When Rollison tried to get more particulars about her son she closed up completely. Did that mean she knew that Cobbett would be in trouble if she talked?

He went to The Docker but Cobbett was not there.

With veiled insolence, the barman told him that Cobbett had not been in all day and the blousy barmaid, who had once inspired Keller’s mob to attack a man who had waited for her after opening hours, did not even spare Rollison a glance. None of the customers appeared to recognise him.

On the other side of the road, when he left, were three familiar-looking men and, further along, another three. They were plainclothes policemen, trying to look the part of dock-labourers. That was a mistake. Thoughtfully, he strolled towards Jupe Street and was near it when a police car turned the corner. In it, he saw Chumley.

“So The Docker is going to be raided,” mused Rollison, and was smiling when he reached the hall.

Kemp was reading in his little room. He put his book down and jumped up.

“Billy the Bull’s been asking for you, Rolly.”

“When?” asked Rollison.

“He’s sent that bald-headed second round several times since five o’clock,” said Kemp. “I wouldn’t be surprised if—”

Before he could finish the door opened and Billy the Bull’s second danced in, squeaked complainingly that he could not waste all day and demanded that Rollison should go with him. He talked shrilly and at length but, by winks, nods and asides, gave the impression that he was aware that he was taking part in a conspiracy of great importance. Rollison humoured him and not until they were out of Kemp’s hearing did the little man say:

“Billy said I wasn’t to tell anyone where we was goin’, Mr Ar, ‘sept you.”

“Where are we going?” asked Rollison, patiently.

“St Guy’s hall, near East Wharf,” answered the bald-headed man. “Billy and me have bin watchin’ it, like you said. Took over at three o’clock, we did. A coupla ruffians—” he brought the word out contemptuously “—tried to start a fight. A fight, wiv Billy!”

“They couldn’t have known Billy,” said Rollison, quickening his pace. The little man danced by his side and soon they were within sight of the wharf. There was no sign of activity for the ship had been cleared of its cargo. The WVS canteen was not there and the wooden hall, with its flimsy wire fence wrecked by the previous night’s incident, looked small and lonely against the high walls of warehouses some distance behind it.

Billy the Bull was pacing up and down.

“I’m glad you’ve come, Mr Ar,” he said, worriedly, “I dunno that I like it. Bill Ebbutt tole me that I wasn’t ter come too close an’ wasn’t ter look inside but if you arst me, it’s time someone did.”

“Why?” asked Rollison, hurrying towards the hall.

“Two fellers tried to start a fight,” said Billy, “but I wouldn’t ‘ave nothing to do wiv’ them, Mr Ar.” He was very serious. “Soon’s I looked rahnd, there was another couple on the other side’ve the “all but I never seed them go in. Do yer fink we’ve found sunnink?”