John Creasey - The Toff And The Curate

“I don’t like worrying you, sir,” said Craik, his lips quivering. “But—but is it true that Mr Kemp has been arrested?”

“No,” said Rollison, emphatically.

“Oh, it isn’t! Oh, I am glad!” exclaimed Craik. “I was afraid it was true, this is such a wicked affair, sir. It—it seems to affect all the best-meaning people. He hasn’t been seen since this morning.”

“He doesn’t have to stay here all the time,” observed Rollison, annoyed by this leakage of information, “who told you anything about it?”

“One of my customers,” said Craik.

“Which one?” demanded Rollison.

Craik could not be sure. The shop had been crowded in the morning and the subject had cropped up in general conversation. He would not name any individual, for fear of doing injustice. Pressed, he admitted that he had been so rushed that he had not really noticed who had been in the shop. He remembered old Mrs Whiting because she had appeared to think that Kemp might be guilty of some crime.

“I soon put her in her place,” said Craik, virtuously.

“And so you should,” said Rollison. “Has the story of Kemp’s arrest got around much do you know?”

“I’m sure I couldn’t say,” Craik answered. “I know I haven’t said anything!”

Rollison, feeling sceptical of these protestations, went to 49, Little Lane. Whiting was out but his wife was there and two of Ebbutt’s men were on the other side of the street. Mrs Whiting looked troubled, asked Rollison in and then turned on her mother who came tottering into the front parlour.

“There’s no need for you, Ma!”

“I got my rights, ain’t I?” demanded the old woman. “What’s worrying you, now,” she shot a venomous glance at Rollison.

The younger woman looked on edge but made no further attempt to send her mother about her business.

“I’ve heard a rumour about Mr Kemp—” Rollison began.

“There you are,” put in the old crone. “I knew it wasn’t a lie, just because you said it was. I don’t care what you say, I’m going to tell Mrs Parsons and—”

“If you say a word to her or any other mealy-mouthed old gossip, out of this house you go!” cried Mrs Whiting and her tone so startled her mother that the old woman sat down abruptly, gaping, it’s wicked, it is really, Mr Rollison,” went on Mrs Whiting, nearly in tears. “Someone has been saying that Mr Kemp is under arrest.”

“It isn’t true,” Rollison assured her.

The little woman’s face became positively radiant.

“Oh, I am glad! You see?” She shot a triumphant glance at her mother.

“Where did you hear it, Mrs Whiting?” Rollison asked. “Joe Craik told me and he ought to know,” declared the old crone.

“Did it come from him personally?” asked Rollison.

“From his own lips. I was the only one in the shop and he made me promise not to breathe a word,” the old woman said. “But he didn’t mean I wasn’t to tell my best friendsV

Rollison said, slowly:

“It’s much better that no one should know— you were quite right, Mrs Whiting. You’re sure no one has been told?”

The younger woman said feelingly:

“I haven’t let Mother go out since she told me. I didn’t mean to let a scandal like that get around because I knew the minute she told Mrs Parsons—”

“You leave your mother’s friends alone,” complained the older woman.

“Mrs Parsons and I are old friends,” said Rollison.

“P’raps she is and p’raps she ain’t!” snorted the old woman and flounced out.

“You’re so good with the old people, sir,” Mrs Whiting said. “I do wish she wouldn’t talk so much. Sometimes I think she’s as bad as Mrs Parsons. Why, only this afternoon . . .”

For the first time, Rollison heard of the conversation between Craik and Cobbett the crane-driver and the fact that Cobbett had appeared sincerely anxious to make amends. He wondered whether Grice or Chumley had heard the story.

After leaving Mrs Whiting he telephoned four people to find out whether any of them knew of the rumour about Kemp’s arrest. They did not.

He stepped out of the kiosk, walked past Craik’s shop and returned to Gresham Terrace by bus and tram, hoping that his movements were watched. He was on the look-out for further assaults but none came. It looked as if Straker had shot his bolt.

Smiling to himself, he reached the flat and rang the bell.

He was rubbing his hands, not unlike Joe Craik, when Jolly admitted him.

“Now, we won’t be long!” said Rollison.

But his mood changed for Jolly looked troubled and Grice appeared from behind him, looking very grim. Then Isobel appeared from the drawing-room. She looked angry, hair dishevelled and face shiny. “When are you going to make the police see sense?” she demanded.

“What’s wrong now?” asked Rollison.

“Everything’s wrong,” exclaimed Isobel.

“What is it?” Rollison asked Grice. “And let’s sit down and have a drink. Jolly!”

They relaxed a little as they sat down.

“At least we’ve got Straker,” reported Grice. “The first crack came from the man Harris but we also caught the taxi-driver and the flashy man who followed you. He had received his orders from Straker personally.”

Rollison began to smile.

“So, they were panicking, I hoped they were when the taxi turned into the street. One grain of truth from Anstruther completely upset the applecart. Have you held Gregson and the others?”

“No,” said Grice. “I . . .”

“Tell him!” Isobel almost shouted.

“Now what is all this?” demanded Rollison as Jolly came forward with a laden tray.

Grice said: “We’ve questioned every man we’ve caught. Gregson isn’t among them, nor is Keller, nor is the unknown man in Whitechapel—if one exists. They all say the same thing—that Kemp is involved down there.”

“Do they, b’God,” said Rollison.

“They must be lying!” exclaimed Isobel.

“The fact remains that we have a detailed story about practically everything,” said Grice. “We know how the whisky was stored, how it was distributed and where it was made. Straker is in it up to the hilt and so are the others whom we’ve caught—and all of them implicate Kemp. What is more, Straker says that Cobbett discovered that Kemp was involved and went to blackmail him.”

“Oh,” said Rollison, again. “Cunning on the part of Cobbett—a public conversation with Craik, so as to put himself in a good light, then a little gentle blackmail. There’s one obvious reason for all accusing fingers pointing at Kemp,” he went on. “They’re still covering someone else. There can’t be any other explanation. What are you going to do?”

“What can I do but act on the evidence?” asked Grice.

“Rolly, I just don’t believe that Ronald’s concerned in this,” said Isobel, passionately. “Can’t you do anything?”

CHAPTER TWENTY—ONE

The Malice Of Man

“I’m certainly going to do something,” said Rollison after a long pause. “Does Kemp know the latest facts?”

“Not yet.”

“When he’s told, keep him away from Straker! The malice of men is an ugly thing. Straker is going down and wants to pull everyone else with him, especially Kemp who blundered in with his crusade. When you come to think of it, that’s not been a failure.”

“Why are you standing there talking?” demanded Isobel, sharply. “How can you disprove what Straker says?”

“By finding the truth,” said Rollison. “I think we can. Don’t look so down in the mouth, my love!” He turned to Grice. “Bill, can you have a strong cordon of police flung round the Jupe Street area including East Wharf? Not one man here and there but a really large party so that, if there’s a concerted rush to break away, your chaps can stop it. By now, whoever is working down there will have heard of the trouble and won’t want to stay for long. I mean Gregson and Might-be-Keller, of course.”