John Creasey - The Toff And The Curate

“Don’t worry about me,” said Kemp. “You’ve taken a load off my mind and I don’t know how to say thanks. I can look after myself but when it comes to other people being victimised—” he broke off, and smiled. “You certainly know your way about!”

Rollison was on the point of leaving when a taxi drew up outside and Jolly arrived.

He had little information. No word of the trouble at the hall had yet reached Freddie Day or others whom Jolly had seen but the hostility towards Kemp was already well known. Not until they were in the taxi, the driver of which was still in a good humour, did Jolly confide that the majority were taking a neutral attitude. Kemp had not yet made a very good impression among his parishioners.

“He will,” said Rollison, confidently.

He told Jolly what had happened before they reached the flat. Rollison paid the driver off, adding a pound to the fare and walked upstairs with the man’s gusty thanks ringing in his ears.

Jolly had gone ahead.

Afterwards, Rollison knew that he should have been prepared for some such development, although he had not thought of the possibility of a visit to the flat so early. As it was, he stepped inside the little hall and saw Jolly standing motionless with his back towards him, just inside the drawing-room.

“What—” he began.

“That’s enough from you, Rollison,” said a voice from behind him.

Rollison forced himself not to turn too hastily but his heart began to thump. The voice was that of the thick-set man whom he had seen at the back of Whiting’s house. He caught a glimpse of the owner of the educated voice, standing in front of Jolly. He got the impression that Jolly was being held up at the point of a gun, as he turned to look into the curiously docile looking brown eyes of the man with the growling voice.

CHAPTER FIVE

“I’m Keller.”

Once he had recovered from the surprise, Rollison smiled into the man’s face.

“Harry Keller, I presume,” he said.

“I’m Keller, yes,” answered the thick-set man. “When are you going to stop nosing into other people’s business?”

“It’s a congenital failing, I’m afraid,” said Rollison, sadly, “I can’t help myself.”

“You’ll help yourself this time,” said Keller.

His assurance in itself was puzzling. If the visitors had planned an attack it would probably have been made when Rollison had walked unsuspectingly into the hall. It appeared more likely that Keller had come to reason with him and that was puzzling.

“What makes you think so?” he inquired politely.

“We don’t want that big parson around and we don’t intend to let him stay, Toff or no Toff. Nothing you can do will make any difference but if you don’t lay off, you will get hurt.”

“Oh, dear,” said Rollison, blankly.

“I mean hurt ,” repeated Keller, harshly. “It won’t help you to run to the dicks. They can’t get at me and I’m too powerful for you on your own. It’s time you stayed where you belong.”

“Where do you think that is?” asked Rollison.

“In the West End with all your fancy tarts and your wealthy friends,” said Keller. “This isn’t a game for you, Rollison. You might get your hands dirty.” Rollison watched his mobile features, seeing the way his lips curled and his eyebrows rose. Keller was an impressive personality, it would be folly to underestimate him. “You stay in Mayfair, Rollison, and if you must stick your nose into things that don’t concern you, there’s plenty of cleaning up to be done in your own back yard. But you wouldn’t try that, would you? You might find your precious friends are mixed up in it.”

“In what?” asked Rollison, obtusely.

“You know what,” rasped Keller. “I’m telling you to stick around your own back yard and not meddle in mine.”

“A whole world, all of your own?” asked Rollison.

“If you won’t take a warning, don’t blame me for anything that happens. I don’t want to interfere with you. You let me alone, I’ll let you alone.”

“Now who could say fairer than that?” asked Rollison, lightly. “What would you say if a policeman were to walk into the flat this minute?” He studied the man curiously and thought he had him guessing. “I don’t suggest that it’s likely but I have all sorts of queer friends. I’d say to him: “Bill”—or Percy or whatever his name happened to be— “this is Harry Keller. He employed Spike Adams and Tom Harris to beat up the Rev Ronald Kemp. He employed others to wreck a mission hall and do some hundreds of pounds worth of damage. He stole the knife belonging to a man named Craik and killed a third party with the said Craik’s knife."“

The atmosphere had grown noticeably more tense while a movement from the drawing-room made him glance at the man with the cultured voice who was pushing past Jolly. He held a gun.

But no one spoke.

“Shall I go on?” Rollison asked. “"Having committed murder," I would add, "Keller worried because a man named Whiting knew about the stolen knife, so he visited Whiting and uttered threats and menaced the lives of Whiting’s children. After that, he heard from Spike Adams or Tom Harris that I was a friend of Kemp, so he came here, burglariously entered my flat, threatened my valet with a gun and uttered more menaces." Then,” continued Rollison, smiling faintly, “I would ask him how many years in gaol you’d be likely lo get.”

Keller spoke in a thin voice. “You don’t know what you’ve done, Rollison.”

“Oh, but I do,” said Rollison. “I’ve frightened you and your friend. Queer thing, fear. I’ve made a study of it.”

“Once and for all, Rollison, I’m telling you to stick to your own back yard!”

“But Whitechapel is mine,” protested the Toff. “I was a frequenter of Jupe Street before you knew the difference between Whitechapel and Bethnal Green. What time did Grice say he’d be here, Jolly?”

Jolly answered with hardly a pause, as if he had been expecting the question and Keller stiffened.

“At four o’clock, sir. I think he’s a little late.”

“Grice is on holiday!” Keller growled.

“He was—but he would make any sacrifice in a good cause,” said Rollison, as if gratified. “When I asked him to come back, he promised to start right away. Of course he’ll be alone, so you might prefer to stay. One Superintendent of Scotland Yard won’t make much difference to you. Besides, you are above the police.”

“I know what I’m about,” rasped Keller.

“That’s splendid,” declared Rollison.

“If you don’t—”

“Oh, go away!” snapped Rollison, losing patience. “You and your empty threats—what do you expect to gain? You’ve already lined up half of Whitechapel behind Kemp. Before tonight they hadn’t much time for him, now they’re on his side. Go away and assimilate a little common sense!” He sounded almost pettish as he turned away, passing Jolly and the second man and, pushing the latter roughly to one side, he strode into the drawing-room and picked up the telephone.

The success of the trick he had planned depended upon Jolly—who dodged back into the drawing-room and slammed the door. Rollison dropped the telephone and jumped to the door, putting his full weight against it as Jolly turned the key. Three heavy thuds shook it; then the men outside ceased trying to break it down.

Rollison and Jolly stood either side of the door so that, if Keller or his man fired into it, they would be out of harm’s way.

Rollison spoke in a loud voice.

“Nicely done, Jolly!”

“Thank you, sir,” said Jolly, soberly.

“I hope Grice doesn’t run into them,” Rollison went on, sounding anxious. “He’s an impetuous beggar and might start a riot. I’d better ring for someone else from the Yard,” he added. He walked heavily round the room then lifted the telephone and banged the receiver up and down several times.