The Toff And The Curate t-12 Read online

  Rollison twisted round so that he could see his leg. The trouser-leg was torn slightly and there was a small streak of blood but he did not think it was serious; a piece of broken wood lay near him.

  He stood up and helped Isobel as a dozen men hurried towards them.

  Not far away, a man with a pronounced Irish brogue said loudly:

  “Always aslape, I’ve never known a country where the people slape so much!” He spoke insultingly to a big sweaty docker who glowered at him.

  “Keep your trap shut, Kelly.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Rollison saw the Irishman stop suddenly then swing round and aim a blow at the docker’s head. On the instant, men began to fight. Two were bowled over by the big Irishman who was landing right and left, others joined him and stood together, breathing defiance.

  A little, dark-haired man, better dressed than most of the others and who had been approaching Rollison, roared:

  “Stop that fighting!”

  No one took the slightest notice.

  “Strike me, I’ll see the lot of you in jail if—” roared the little man and plunged into the middle of the fray. He did not use his fists but pushed and shoved and shouted and out of the melee there came some sort of order. Before long, the combatants had separated and were standing away from each other. The Irish were grinning widely and there seemed to be no malice in the others.

  The little dark-haired man gave orders and some of the dockers, from both sections, went towards an empty lorry and began to load it with wooden crates. Only a few of the men had restarted work, however, but Rollison paid little attention to that. He answered questions reassuringly for no great harm had been done. He smiled at the dark-haired man and at the English and the Irish working together in what now appeared to be perfect harmony.

  A disruptive note was introduced by the lorry driver.

  “Now then, don’t knock me lorry apart, Irish!”

  “That’s enough, Straker!” snapped the dark-haired man.

  “Me name’s Smith,” said the lorry driver, truculently.

  Rollison would have paid little attention to the exchange but for his interest in the dark-haired man who had shown himself so capable of handling an ugly situation.

  “Your name doesn’t matter a stripe to me,” he growled. “You work for Straker. Don’t start more trouble on this wharf. If you do, I’ll report you right away.”

  “All right, all right,” growled the driver. “Can’t yer take a joke?” He lit a cigarette and went slouching off to the front of his lorry.

  Two scared-looking women in the green dress of WVS workers came from the mobile canteen.

  “Are you really all right?” Rollison asked Isobel.

  “I’m scared, that’s all.”

  “Accidents will happen,” said Rollison, “we were in luck’s way.”

  No one had been seriously hurt, although the fence of a wooden hut, standing near, was down. A few pieces of machinery were strewn about the wharf, small parts from the packing-cases; Rollison was almost disappointed because there were no broken whisky bottles. He waited until Kemp was dusting himself down and a plump little woman came out with two cups of tea, before turning to the dark-haired man.

  “Are you in charge?” he asked.

  “Yes. I’m the foreman.” The man was abrupt.

  “I’d like a word with that crane-driver.”

  “So would I!” said the foreman, darkly. “Are you sure that cut doesn’t need attention, Mr Rollison?”

  “I’ll see to it later.” Rollison passed no comment on the fact that he had been recognised but went with the foreman towards the crane. It was drooping towards the ground, as if something had broken, and a man was climbing from its smelly interior. Small and pale-faced, he reminded Rollison of Craik but was young enough to be Craik’s son.

  “What the hell are you doing? I thought you were a crane-driver, not a—” he went on with unprintables, a flow which showed a nice discrimination and made the driver’s lips quiver. Several other men gathered round. In different circumstances, Rollison would have been sorry for the little man.

  At last, the foreman stopped.

  “I-I-I’m sorry, sir,” gasped the driver, in a small voice. “I misjudged the distance and tried to swing it back. Then my hand slipped.”

  “Slipped? Mine’ll slip where you don’t want it, you bloody lunatic!” roared the foreman. “I’m always telling you to keep your eyes on your job and to stop going to sleep. This’ll be your last ride in a crane,” he added. “I’ll see you off this wharf if I have to drive the thing myself!”

  “I-I’m sorry,” muttered the crane-driver. He looked at Rollison. “You-you wasn’t—no one was hurt, was they?”

  “You nearly broke this gentleman’s leg,” rasped the foreman, “and for all you cared, you might have knocked their brains out.”

  The apologetic crane-driver could not keep still, evaded the foreman’s eyes as well as Rollison’s. Once or twice, he put an unsteady hand to his lips and his eyes were suspiciously bright.

  “Knock off now and go to my office!” snapped the foreman. As the man turned to go and a path was made for him through the crowd, the foreman looked up like a bantam cock and roared: “What in hades do you loafing varmints think you’re doing? Do we want that ship unloaded or don’t we? Double lime—why, before I pay you double time for behaving like a crowd of village idiots, I’ll burn my shirt!”

  The curious threat was effective for the men turned away and work started again. A small party had already taken the broken goods from the net and the foreman himself went to the crane and manoeuvred skilfully until it was in its proper position and the empty net was over the hold of the ship. Rollison watched him with close interest. The smelly, oily fumes were nauseating and the number of buttons and levers were confusing but the foreman had a sure touch.

  He finished and jumped down.

  “Take it over, Smith,” he said to an oldish man standing by. “It’s time they left this job to men.”

  “How old is the driver?” Rollison asked.

  “About twenty,” said the foreman. “Only he isn’t a driver any more.”

  “What’s his name?” asked Rollison.

  “Cobbett.”

  “And there’s nothing mechanically wrong with the crane?”

  “No. The fool overshot the mark and pressed the wrong button, lowering it instead of taking it back—my stripes, Mr Rollison, I had the wind up! I thought you were all done for!”

  “No great harm done, except to the goods,” said Rollison. “Are they all the same?”

  “No, it’s a mixed cargo,” said the foreman. “I wouldn’t care if it had been a bale of feather pillows, he shouldn’t have lost his head.”

  “Do you know him well?”

  “Not so well as I know some of them,” said the foreman, and looked squarely into Rollison’s face. “What are you getting at, Mr Rollison?”

  “If you’ve worked here for long, you’ve probably heard that the new curate isn’t popular,” said Rollison.

  The foreman grinned.

  “Didn’t you see that fight last night. But of course you did, I saw you at the ring-side—my stripes, what a fight and what a fighter! Pity he took the cloth, he might have been a British hope!”

  “You haven’t quite followed me—by the way, I didn’t get your name?”

  “Owen. Jake Owen,” said the foreman. “Where haven’t I followed you?”

  “Kemp still isn’t popular in certain quarters,” said Rollison. “I think there have been attacks on his life.”

  Owen’s lips tightened, and for some seconds he just stared. Then:

  “You mean Cobbett did it on purpose?”

  “I mean, he might have done.”

  “I’ll soon find out,” growled Owen and turned on his heel, his face livid. Rollison stopped him.

  “It’s better not to voice suspicions at this stage, we might be wrong,” he said quietly. “Even if we’re right, I
don’t think we should say so yet. We’ve plenty of reasons for making inquiries about Cobbett without saying why. I’m taking you on trust,” he added with an apologetic smile.

  “If you say I’m to keep my mouth shut, I’ll keep it shut,” growled Owen. “I don’t want any filthy murderers working on my shift.”

  “Good! Can you stand Cobbett off for a day or two?”

  “That’ll only give him a rest, the lazy young—”

  “He might go places,” murmured Rollison, “and I’d rather like to find out where.”

  Owen was very quick in the uptake.

  “I get you! You like to do things your own way, don’t you?”

  “The right way when I see it,” said Rollison. “Thanks.” He obtained Cobbett’s address before he left Owen who went to the little office to interview the crane-driver. Rollison returned to the WVS canteen. Kemp was standing by it, Isobel was serving tea and sandwiches to men who were having a break. The sun was getting lower and the first shadows of evening were over the docks, bathing the distant side of the river in a mellow, softening light which took away the ugliness of brick buildings and cranes and barges and even hid the skeleton shapes of two warehouses which had been destroyed by fire during heavy raids. Kemp was looking sombre. “What can I do with her?” he demanded as Rollison drew up. “She won’t give it up for tonight and go home.”

  Rollison smiled. “Nor would you, in the circumstances.”

  “It must have given her a whale of a shock.” it did me but I’m not going home,” said Rollison. “I’ve a story that will interest you,” he added. “Isobel won’t mind if you come with me—will you?”

  Isobel reassured him and seemed eager to demonstrate that she could still serve two cups of tea to another woman’s one. Rollison refused a cup and left with Kemp. Rollison glanced round, after going a few yards, and saw Isobel staring after them, a cup of tea in her hand. Rollison smothered a grin. At the Jupe Street hall he gave Kemp an outline of his suspicions but he did not mention Craik’s part in helping him to form them, nor did he go into details. He finished:

  “If I’m right, then the stuff is being stored somewhere near.”

  “Do you think one of the church halls is being used?” said Kemp, slowly.

  “It wouldn’t surprise me.”

  “We’ve three that haven’t been used for some lime. Do you want to search them?”

  “Not yet,” decided Rollison. “I think it had better wait—I’ll have someone keep an eye on them, though. You don’t let them out, do you?”

  “No. They’re only wooden huts. Mr Cartwright believed in getting out among the people, he thought it easier than trying to persuade them to walk as far as St Guy’s.”

  “There isn’t much wrong with Cartwright’s reasoning,” said Rollison.

  “It would just about finish him if he learned about this,” said Kemp, grimly.

  Rollison looked his amazement.

  “Finish Cartwright? Not on your life! He’d want to get out of bed and be after them with an axe!”

  Kemp looked startled.

  “Perhaps you’re right. I—” he stopped abruptly with his mouth parted and his puffy eye opened. Rollison watched him, not surprised at the sudden change and knowing that sooner or later one possibility would occur to Kemp.

  “Look here!” exclaimed the curate, “was that accident with the crane really an accident? Or—”

  “Or, I think,” answered Rollison. “They know that they haven’t a chance of driving you out and they’re getting desperate. Accidents will happen,” he repeated, ironically. “They won’t want to work up police interest by straightforward murder. The police didn’t go so wild over the murder of O’Hara as they would over the Rev Ronald Kemp. Watch your step—literally.”

  Kemp began to rub his hands together slowly and his good eye began to glisten.

  Rollison made a note of the sites of the halls and then went round to Bill’s gymnasium, which he found packed, and where he was greeted with great affability. Soon after he arrived, six men departed with instructions to watch the three halls in couples, from a safe distance, and to report any visits by night or day. Then Rollison mentioned, casually, that he had been served with some pretty potent whisky earlier in the evening.

  “There’s some raw stuff about,” declared Bill Ebbutt. “You should ‘ave stayed thirsty until you arrived ‘ere, Mr Ar—I don’t sell poison.” He grinned as well as he could. His face was a mass of bruises, black and blue and purple, and he was obviously in great discomfort. “How’s the Rev?”

  “A black eye apart, he’s all right.”

  “Bless ‘is heart! Will you ‘ave a drink?” asked Ebbutt

  “No, thanks, that one was enough for tonight!” Rollison shuddered, realistically. “Is much hooch sold?”

  “There’s been one or two fellers in pitchin’ the tale—you know ‘ow it goes. They’ve got ‘old of a few dozen bottles orf someone who’s gone bankrupt—but if you bought the stuff, you’d soon go broke all right! The samples is all right, sunnines, sunnines they gives you a spot’ve the real poison.”

  “Can you remember any of the salesmen?”

  Bill Ebbutt began to toy with his fleshy jowl. In a very sober voice, he answered:

  “Maybe I could. Are you on to sunnink?”

  “I might be but I don’t want your boys to know about it.”

  “S’very thoughtful of yer,” said Ebbutt. “Very thoughtful indeed. Bootleg liquor, is it? It could be big.” He closed his eyes in an effort to recall who had tried to sell him the stuff and finally opened them and said hurriedly:

  "One was a little Irish feller, a proper Kelly. I dunno his name. The other was one o’ these eddicated types, all smiles. I soon sent ‘im off wiv’ a flea in ‘is ear. Tell yer what, Mr Ar—if anyone else comes peddling it, I’ll buy a dozen an’ see what I can find out.”

  “Good idea, Bill!” said Rollison. “This educated fellow—what was he like?”

  “Tall-as-you-are-dark-suit-good-looker-clean-shaved-round-erbaht-thirty-five. That do yer, Mr Ar?”

  “Wonderful!” said Rollison. “You’ve described the man I have in mind. Have you seen him about lately?”

  “Nope.”

  “Will you find out if he’s been to any of the other pubs?”

  “Yep. If they’ve bought the stuff, they won’t talk—if they ‘aven’t, they’ll tell me.”

  The description of ‘Keller’s’ educated companion clinched one thing; the gang was peddling illicit whisky. From the taste of Craik’s sample, Rollison thought it was probably made from illicit stills. There was a great deal of similar stuff on sale, especially at the flashier clubs, and members of the armed services bought more of it than anyone else.

  “I think it’s time I saw the Yard,” Rollison decided, standing on a corner and watching the trams pass by, noisy yet ghostly with their faint lights. There were very few cars or other vehicles, except an occasional bus. He strolled towards Whitechapel Station and, as he neared it, a taxi began to move from the curb.

  Rollison hailed it, quickly. The driver pulled up.

  “Where to?” he demanded. “I’m on me way to me garage, can’t go far.”

  “Scotland Yard,” ordered Rollison.

  The pavement was filled with people walking slowly to and fro and some of the shadows seemed to be sinister. He did not think he had been followed but, if he had, then ‘Keller’ would soon know where he was going.

  The interior of the cab was very dark and the driver started off too soon.

  “Be careful!” exclaimed Rollison—and then stopped short for a hand gripped his wrist and another closed over his mouth and he was dragged into the cab as the door banged. The cab moved off at a rattling pace and Rollison, almost suffocated by the pressure on his mouth, could hardly move.

  “Going to Scotland Yard, are you,” said the man with the cultured voice.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Unexpected Journey

  “Keep sti
ll!” the man said and struck Rollison across the face. He had released his grip and Rollison was trying to get himself more comfortable. The scratch on his leg troubled him and he was half-kneeling, half-lying, across the legs of the two occupants of the taxi. He could just see their faces, pale in the darkness.

  Soon, he managed to ease his leg and stopped moving.

  “That’s better,” the man said. “You’ve made a mistake this time, Rollison. You aren’t going to Scotland Yard.”

  “Be careful, Gregson!” said the other who was the self-styled Keller. “He might try to jump out.”

  “He won’t take the risk,” said Gregson, confidently. “Sit on one of the tip-up seats, Rollison. Don’t forget that we mean business. If you should meet with a nasty accident—well, you wouldn’t know much about it.”

  Groping in the darkness, Rollison pulled a seat down and sat on it. He had not recovered enough to strike out at the others; he doubted whether he would be wise to. Their confidence now was as great as it had been at the flat with better reason.

  Gregson said:

  “I’ve got a shot of morphia here, Rollison; if you get funny you’ll have it and you won’t wake up again. This is your last chance, if you behave yourself.”

  Rollison forced himself to reply:

  “Accommodating of you. You’re well-equipped, aren’t you? Am I going to hear more about my own back-yard?”

  “That’s enough of that!” snapped ‘Keller.’

  He was keeping in the background, the role of spokesman had been switched; Rollison wondered who was really the leader.

  He should have been prepared for such an attack. Had the taxi been waiting, he would have wondered whether it had been there fortuitously but, as it had been moving away after dropping a fare, he had not thought twice about it. The incident had been very well-planned.

  The only consolation lay in the fact that they still seemed disposed to reason.