John Creasey - The Toff And The Curate

“You must be mad , even to think of such a thing!”

“All I want is evidence that I am mad,” said Rollison, mildly.

“And you think Ronald might come to your flat when he knows that everything is being settled tonight?”

“I think it will help to find the truth about him,” said Rollison. “You’ll amplify that story, of course—say I’m interviewing a man, one man, who is going to name the chief rogue.”

“It sounds beastly,” said Isobel.

“Be your age!” exclaimed Rollison. “If Ronald’s mixed up in this affair, it’s necessary to find out for the sake of a lot of people— especially that of Isobel Crayne! If he isn’t, then it doesn’t matter a tinker’s curse.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Isobel said, reluctantly.

“You’ll do it? Good girl!”

“I mustn’t tell him before a quarter-past nine you say.”

“No—nor much later.”

“All right,” she said.

She did not say that she might not see Kemp and Rollison assumed that they had a date. If Kemp were innocent, they would make a good couple.

As soon as he reached the flat Rollison telephoned the office, to find that a message had already been received from Cracknell confirming his appointment to the official inquiry into the whisky racket.

“And what have you in mind for me, today?” asked Jolly.

“The same again,” said Rollison. “Try to trace the source of supply in the West End.”

“And you will operate in the neighbourhood of St Guy’s, sir?”

“Can you think of a better hole?” asked Rollison.

He was at Bill Ebbutt’s gymnasium just after half-past twelve but nothing of interest had come in. Ebbutt’s men were keeping a watch on the Whitings. Next he saw Kemp in one of the church halls, putting it straight after the police search. He saw the Yard men whom he had asked Grice to send to follow Kemp; so that was all right. He went on to Craik’s shop, which was crowded with customers, then visited East Wharf where work was going on apace, unloading another cargo.

Owen came across to him.

“Do you know anything, Mr Rollison?”

“No more than you,” said Rollison.

“I wish I could help,” said Owen. “What’s it about? I might be able to strike something if I knew more about it.”

“I don’t see what you can do,” Rollison said, “except tell me what happened to the goods you take off the ships?”

“Most of it’s taken to the factories waiting for it,” Owen told him. “Some of it goes into warehouses. Why, Mr Rollison?”

“How are the contents checked? I mean, are the cases opened here or are they sent off without being opened.”

“Oh, they’re all marked,” said Owen. “I—my stripes! You don’t think there’s any smuggling going on?”

“Could there be?”

“If anything got past me, I’d tear my shirt!” declared Owen. “I don’t think it’s likely. The Port Authority police haven’t warned me, anyhow.”

“Will you keep a careful look-out?” asked Rollison.

Owen assured him he would, giving the impression that he was genuinely anxious to help.

Rollison was deliberating on his next move when a fair-haired youngster, bare-footed and dressed in a grubby singlet and patched flannel shorts, came racing towards him. The cobbles did not appear to hurt his feet.

“Mr Ar, Mr Ar!” he called and came to a standstill in front of the Toff. “Mr Ar, Bill ses will you “phone yon man? He ses you’d know who I mean.”

“I do, thanks,” said Rollison, gave him sixpence and went to a telephone kiosk and called Jolly.

“I’m very glad you’ve come through so quickly, sir. I have discovered Gregson’s West End address.”

“That’s good work,” said Rollison. “Where is it?”

“The Daisy Club, in Pond Street,” answered Jolly. “I saw him going in and a little questioning of a cleaner elicited the fact that the man whom we know as Keller is also a frequenter of the club. Another thing, sir—a bottle of the—er—firewater was delivered by special messenger this morning.”

“A bottle?” asked Rollison. “Who on earth—” and then he chuckled. “Oh, yes, I asked one of the girls at the office to buy me a bottle. Any note to say which club it came from?”

“There is a sealed note accompanying it,” said Jolly.

“Open it, will you?” said Rollison.

After a pause, Jolly spoke again.

“It is signed: ‘Mabel Bundy, Sergeant,’ sir, and” — there was the slightest unsteadiness in Jolly’s voice— “it says that the bottle was bought at the Daisy Club, as requested.”

“Have you tried it?” asked Rollison.

“I did venture to taste it, sir. I think it is exactly the same brand as that which you brought from Craik’s shop.”

“So all things point to the Daisy Club,” said Rollison, with satisfaction. “Telephone my office, thank Sergeant Bundy for me, then come along to the Daisy Club.”

“Very good, sir,” said Jolly.

Rollison walked to Whitechapel Tube Station.

There was a faint doubt in his mind for, just as everything had once pointed to The Docker and the church halls, it seemed that they were now pointing to the Daisy Club. But this time there seemed to have been no effort on anyone’s part to make him pay attention to the place. The purchase of a bottle of the whisky from the club by Sergeant Mabel Bundy was quite unconnected with Jolly’s discovery and appeared to have been a lucky stroke.

Pond Street was a dingy thoroughfare off Shaftesbury Avenue. ‘ The Daisy Club, Secretary F. Legge’ , was written on a varnished board nailed to the porch at the foot of a flight of narrow stairs which were fitted with hair-carpet. Jolly was at the far end of the street and Rollison walked to meet him.

It was then that he received the biggest shock he had yet had in Vaffaire Kemp.

In the doorway of a shop, out of sight until he passed it, two plainclothes men were standing. There was nothing unusual in seeing Yard men in Pond Street but these were the two men whom, not long before, he had seen outside Kemp’s hall.

“What is it, sir?” asked Jolly, as he drew up.

“Kemp’s shadows. They might have been given a new assignment,” said Rollison, “but I doubt it.”

They walked past the two Yard men towards the Club, Rollison on edge in case Kemp was upstairs.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The Curate At The Daisy Club

No one was on the first floor landing.

Rollison reached it just ahead of Jolly. He looked at three doors facing him and another flight of stairs. He listened at each of the doors but heard nothing. Jolly, who had gone ahead, stood at the top of the next flight, beckoning. As Rollison reached him, he heard voices.

One was quite unmistakable.

“You know very well I don’t!” growled Ronald Kemp.

He was speaking in one of two rooms leading from the landing. The words ‘ Daisy Club ’ were written on the door and there was no other notice. The closed door looked flimsy. Rollison stepped closer, standing on one side with Jolly on the other.

The voice of Gregson came next and Rollison caught Jolly’s eye. He hated the implications in Kemp’s visit but forced himself to listen.

“Please yourself,” said Gregson. “You may—”

Footsteps sounded from downstairs. Rollison heard them and turned abruptly—and, on the lower landing, he saw the peeling face of Superintendent Grice. He was taken so much by surprise that he missed Gregson’s next words but the shrill ringing of a telephone bell cut them short.

Grice reached the landing.

Gregson said something in a harsh voice; then there was silence in the room.

“Hallo, Rolly!” said Grice with remarkable heartiness, “I wondered if you’d be here!” He stepped forward and rapped on the door. There was no response—just utter silence.