John Creasey - The Toff And The Curate

The car reached the canteen, drawing up only two yards away from it. A dozen people were battering at the doors. Tight-lipped and pale, Rollison drew his automatic.

“Be careful!” Grice snapped.

“Careful be damned!” Rollison brandished the gun and it was enough to make the nearer men back away. He opened the door and leapt towards the canteen counter. Using the gun as a club, he cracked it on the heads of the men tugging at Jolly, forcing them to relinquish their grip. He struck the man who was pulling Isobel’s hair and heard the crack of the blow. The man dropped back and Isobel drew away, brushing the hair out of her eyes.

Rollison vaulted over the counter, nearly knocking Jolly over, and swung round, pointing the gun at the crowd. Grice joined in, the four of them a tight fit inside the canteen.

There were hundreds of men in front of them, roaring, swearing, cursing.

Above the din, Rollison could hear the stentorian voice of Foreman Owen. It was he who was brandishing the stick and forcing his way up. He burst through and turned to face the crowd.

“Get back to work, you . . .” he roared. “Get back, if a mother’s son of you stays another minute, I’ll—”

What he was going to add was drowned in another roar but it was caused by a different crowd, coming down Jupe Street—and, in the van, Rollison saw Billy the Bull and Bill Ebbutt. The members of the gymnasium club were coming in a solid phalanx, pushing everyone before them. Soon, the malice of the crowd was turned towards them.

By now the police had been reinforced and were appearing along side streets and from the wharf. Rollison, gasping for breath, watched the riot subside as the men began to slip away, many returning to the wharf. Owen chased after them, yelling his head off.

Rollison turned to Isobel.

“There’s your mild little man,” he remarked.

Isobel laughed, in spite of herself. Her face was scratched and a few strands of hair had been torn out but she was not seriously hurt. Jolly had an ugly gash in his right cheek and his wrists were swollen but he was smiling as he watched the crowd moving away.

“I was getting a little perturbed, sir,” he admitted.

“I was scared stiff!” said Rollison. “I bet Kemp will be sorry he missed this one. He’s in the clear, by the way.”

Isobel stared.

"By the way!” she echoed.

“Well, in a manner of speaking,” smiled Rollison. “He’ll be out within an hour, I should think. Eh, Bill?”

“Yes,” said Grice. “Why on earth did this begin?”

“As I understand it, sir,” said Jolly, “there was a sudden outburst of trouble at the wharf. A party of Irish were abused by some of the others and that started a free fight. It spread very quickly—the Irish have a reputation for being bellicose, as you probably know.”

Grice frowned. “The Irish—”

“Oh, let’s blame the Irish, by all means!” said Rollison, taking out cigarettes and proffering them. “But let’s be serious, Bill. The fact that a police cordon had been flung round a wide area leaked out—as it was bound to. Craik and the others tried a diversion. There’s bad blood between some Irish dockers and some English and it never takes much to start a fight, as Isobel and I saw the other evening,” he added.

“There are often scuffles,” admitted Isobel.

“Yes. The easiest way to start a row is for an Englishman to call an Irishman in England a neutral,” went on Rollison. “Our pretty bunch had always tried to draw attention to the wharf and the Irish workers. Today, they had a new idea and tried to cause trouble for Isobel. However, the distraction didn’t work, we went to Craik too quickly.

“Craik!” exclaimed Isobel.

Rollison smiled but Grice did the explaining for Rollison was suddenly besieged by members of the club who wanted to know what it was all about.

* * *

The whole story, checked and cross-checked, was not known for the better part of a week but the essentials were known before the following day was out.

Every effort had been made to make it appear that the illicit whisky came in at East Wharf, whereas it was actually made at several depots of Straker Brothers Cartage and Transport Company. The depots were also distribution points throughout the country. Crates of the illicit whisky were delivered with the genuine cases but since the buyers knew where to look for it, there had been no danger of that fact leaking out.

From the beginning, Craik had been in charge of the Whitechapel district. Gregson’s companion was named Keller but the name had also been used by Craik to cover an imaginary character behind which he could hide and, which had been planned, would help to frame Kemp. Gregson and the real ‘Keller’ had been the managers for the whole of the East End, going further afield in some cases, and also handling the West End sales from the Daisy Club. Craik had used the St Guy’s records to cover his own, thinking that he would not have to show them until Cartwright was better and always putting off making dummy church accounts. The arrival of Kemp had put Craik in danger but Kemp had first been a threat in the West End.

Straker had believed him to be working on it because he suspected who was behind it—a suggestion which Kemp dismissed airily, on the following morning.

“I had no idea he was in any kind of racket. He had always impressed me as being a very sound fellow.”

“As did Craik,” said Rollison.

Kemp frowned. “Ye-es. Oh, I know they hoodwinked me but Craik always seemed such a sincere little man, timid as they come.”

“Moral—don’t confuse timidity with humility,” advised Rollison, sitting back in his favourite chair. “The truth was that you prod-nosed to such good effect that you had them badly worried. As you were likely to be much easier to handle in the East End, Straker did a little sales-talk and there you went. The question is—are you sorry you went to St Guy’s?”

“Great Scott, no!” cried Kemp. “I wouldn’t be anywhere else for the world!”

“You mean that?”

“I do,” said Kemp, fervently. “I don’t mind admitting that I decided to go down there feeling something of a martyr and with a great spirit of self-sacrifice but—” he shrugged, “give me people like Billy the Bull, Bill Ebbutt, the Whitings—oh, there are hundreds of them. D’you know, Rolly, since I’ve been down there and seen the conditions under which they live, the marvel is that they are such a decent bunch.”

“My way of thinking for a long time,” said Rollison.

“The trouble is, there’s such a gulf between them and the rest of London. I mean—”

“No gulf that can’t be crossed,” said Rollison. “Our job is to help ‘em bridge it. It’ll be nice to have some help, eh, Isobel?”

“You don’t need much help,” declared Isobel Crayne.

“Oh, come! Without Jolly I’d be lost— wouldn’t I, Jolly?”

“I very much doubt it, sir,” said Jolly coming in with a tea-trolley, “but it is always a great pleasure to work with you on these little excursions—or, one might say, these aberrations from the normal.”

“Yes, mightn’t one?” murmured Rollison.

“Oh, did I tell you?” asked Kemp, shortly afterwards, munching a muffin with a great show of nonchalance and carefully avoiding Isobel’s eye, isobel and I have decided that as we’re both rather fond of the district and the people, and two together can probably do much more than one—I mean—well, we’ve decided—”

“Fast workers, both of you,” smiled Rollison. “I’m delighted. The others will be, too.”

“Others?” asked Isobel.

“All your little brothers and sisters East of Aldgate Pump!” said Rollison, grandly.