The Toff And The Curate t-12 Page 8

  Chumley chuckled. “You won’t forget that for a long time!”

  “I shall mark it up against you,” declared Rollison. “You’re slyer than I knew. If you should happen to find out the real name of the brown-eyed gentleman, and cared to tell me, I’d be grateful.”

  “I will, provided you undertake to advise me if he does anything which is indictable.”

  “I always report indictable offences,” said Rollison, reprovingly. “The days when I carried out trial and sentence myself are gone—and they existed mostly in your imagination!”

  He stood up and Chumley did not press him to stay. Rollison was smiling broadly as he reached the street. Three quarters of an hour later, he let himself into his flat and the first thing he saw was a light under the kitchen door. He opened it and made Jolly start.

  Jolly wore a white apron over his best clothes and was operating with a yellow powder which Rollison suspected had something to do with eggs. He also had a frying pan on the electric stove, from which came a smell of sizzling fat.

  “What it is to have an instinct!” approved Rollison. “I only had a bun and a piece of cheese for dinner. Good evening, Jolly. Aren’t you tired after your day’s journeying?”

  “Not exceptionally so, sir, and as you have not had dinner, I will reconstitute a little more egg and make two omelettes. Good evening, sir.”

  “While reconstituting, you might also reconstruct,” said Rollison. “Let’s have the diary of a day in the life of one, Jolly.”

  “I am afraid I have had a disappointing time, sir,” said Jolly, mixing powder and water industriously. “At one time I hoped that I would have information of first importance but I was disappointed. You will remember that when I telephoned you, I left somewhat hurriedly?”

  “Yes,” said Rollison.

  “I saw a man whom I had been following all day,” said Jolly. “He had gone into an inn and I thought he would stay there for a while but he came out and hurried to a bus and I thought it better to continue to follow him.”

  “Who was he?” asked Rollison.

  “Not Keller but his companion, sir.”

  Thoughtfully, Rollison lit a cigarette.

  “Keller isn’t Keller, according to my latest information. You mean you followed the owner of the cultured voice?”

  “Yes. Are you sure the other man is not Keller?” Jolly looked puzzled.

  “I’m keeping an open mind,” admitted Rollison, “but the police are confident and Chumley isn’t easy to fool.”

  While Jolly made the omelettes, Rollison told him of the events of the evening. Jolly only occasionally looked up from the frying pan. He had laid a small table in the kitchen for his own supper and Rollison brought in a chair from the dining-room and they ate together. Since Jolly’s day had been disappointing, Rollison was anxious to get his own story into the right perspective and he knew of no better way than discussing it with Jolly.

  “And what is your view of Chumley’s opinions?” asked the valet, as Rollison finished. “Are they genuine or are they intended to mislead you?”

  “The main problem, yes,” said Rollison. “You’re good, Jolly, sometimes you’re very good. Chumley is showing unsuspected cunning, although he doesn’t like being called sly. There always seemed to be something fishy about the detention and arrest and he was making sure that he didn’t take what raps were coming. I don’t know Sergeant Bray,” added Rollison. “It might do him good to be on the carpet but it wasn’t a friendly thing for Chumley to do.”

  “On the surface, no, sir,” said Jolly, getting up and taking the coffee percolator from the stove.

  “But Chumley doesn’t stop there,” went on Rollison. “He knows that he is in deep waters. Very ingenuously, he wanted my opinion, hoping that I would either prove or disprove his own arguments. I couldn’t do either but he doesn’t know that. The curious feature is the identity of Keller.”

  “Identity but also character, sir.”

  “Enlarge on that,” invited Rollison.

  “As I see it, sir,” said Jolly, stirring his coffee, “Keller has built for himself a reputation of being something of a Robin Hood—an avenger, one might say, almost on the lines of your own activities some years ago! He has selected victims who would get no sympathy from the people or the police.”

  “Good point,” admitted Rollison. “Chumley went as far as to say that only rumour links the crimes with Keller. With the arrival of the pseudo-Keller, an explanation dawns. The beatings-up have been done not by the real Keller but by the impersonator.”

  “Undoubtedly the situation is very complicated,” murmured Jolly.

  “Foggy, yes,” said Rollison. “But intriguing. Going further and guessing wildly, we might say that (a) the reputation for Keller was deliberately built up by his vis-a-vis, that (b) the assaults on the “swine” were initiated so that when a victim was ready for attack, the police would be reluctant to assume that it was one of the same series and (c) that it has all been built up with great and admirable cunning, in order to confuse the police, confuse the people, and—”

  “Rid the district of Mr Kemp,” Jolly completed.

  Rollison did not smile.

  “Do you think that’s possible?”

  “I do, sir. As I listened to you, I came to the conclusion that it is the most likely explanation. I hold no brief for Mr Kemp but it is a fact that he has been in the district for six months, that the Keller-crimes, as we may perhaps dub them, have also been in operation for six months. That is right, sir?”

  Rollison began to smile.

  “I’m glad we think alike. You see where this takes us?”

  “If my memory serves me, Mr Cartwright has been ill for nine or ten months and he had been without a curate for some months before that,” Jolly said. “It is just possible that—”

  “Stealing thunder,” said Rollison, “but go on.”

  “Thank you, sir. I was about to say,” Jolly went on with gentle reproof, “that as I understand your surmise, between the time that Mr Cartwright fell ill and the time that Mr Kemp arrived, some crime, or series of crimes, was planned and put into effect. I do not think that they are necessarily the individual acts of violence. They are more likely to prove something of much greater importance or, perhaps I should say, much greater profit. The arrival of Mr Kemp made it possible that the crimes would be discovered and perhaps prevented, so it was decided to get rid of him. Is that your opinion, sir?”

  “You know very well it is.”

  “I certainly share it,” said Jolly, warmly. “I must say that I think it a great pity, Mr Kemp—”

  “You needn’t worry about Kemp,” said Rollison, with satisfaction.

  “I don’t understand you, sir.”

  Tonight, he lasted nine rounds against Billy the Bull and four thousand people saw him. Forty thousand know about it by now. If you’re thinking of going to St Guy’s on Sunday, you’d better reserve a pew!”

  “Mr Kemp—and Billy the Bull?” gasped Jolly.

  “So you can be surprised,” said Rollison, cheerfully.

  “But I can’t believe it, sir! How could such a contest be arranged? How on earth did Mr Kemp realise the possibilities of such a— oh, I see, sir! You had a hand in it!”

  He broke off and they began to laugh. When they sobered up Jolly told his story.

  He had made some fruitless inquiries during the morning and had then gone to the dockside pub, The Docker, understanding that one of the men whom Rollison had caught the previous night had said that Keller had once lived there. Jolly had seen the man with the cultured voice coming out and had decided to follow him.

  The unknown had gone first to Barking, where he had had lunch in a small coffee-shop, and then made his way by bus to Loughton, where he had paid a visit to an inn, then gone from Loughton to Epping which was not far away. There he had had a drink at another pub and visited two more before he had returned, on the last bus, to London. There the black-out had swallowed him up, near Picca
dilly.

  “A protracted pub-crawl,” said Rollison. “But you’ve made a note of the names of the pubs and other places he called at, I hope?”

  “I noted each one down, sir.”

  “Good!” said Rollison, briefly. “Now to bed, Jolly.”

  “I hope we are not disturbed, sir,” said Jolly. “But for that coffee, I would have had great difficulty in keeping awake.” He stifled a yawn, apologised, and asked Rollison what he intended to do next day.

  “In the evening, I hope to see Joe Craik,” said Rollison. “Two things to ponder, Jolly. The warning to Kemp was misspelt, a ‘here’ without its aspirate and other glaring errors but ‘clear’ spelt correctly and not with the double-ee which might have been expected. Would a man who knew where to put commas fail to know where to put an ‘h’?”

  “It isn’t likely, sir. It was a further attempt to confuse, perhaps?”

  “As with Joe Craik’s knife,” said Rollison.

  He was soon asleep in bed and was woken up by Jolly at a quarter-to eight.

  After a long day at the office, without being interrupted by the more pressing affair, he learned from Jolly that no one had telephoned the flat. He went to the East End.

  Kemp was in high spirits when he arrived and appeared to regard him as a worker of miracles.

  “Because Craik’s been released?” asked Rollison. “Don’t thank me, thank the police. What kind of a day have you had?”

  Kemp, his one open eye bright, drew in his breath.

  “The whole atmosphere has changed. I haven’t seen so many smiles or been asked how I am so often in all my life! Now that is a miracle, Rolly, and you can’t deny that you’re responsible for it! I know you fixed the fight with Billy the Bull; I wish I could say thanks.”

  Rollison eyed him reflectively.

  “Odd fellow,” he announced, after a pause. “I don’t work miracles. Nor do you. But they happen. Curious, isn’t it? Now I’m going to see Joe Craik!”

  He left Kemp staring with a startled expression and walked along towards Craik’s shop. On the way, a large number of people hailed him.

  Outside Craik’s shop, a little woman was tapping at the door. Looking round at Rollison, she said:

  “S’funny thing, ‘e said ‘e’d be open until seven o’clock. It’s funny. Joe don’t orfen let yer down.”

  She tapped again but got no response. Rollison’s smile faded and he stood back, the better to survey the shop and to see the closed first-floor windows above the weather-beaten facia board across which was written ‘Joe Craik, Groceries, Provisions’. The shop windows were freshly dressed with tins of goods on points, all carefully docketted, and it was impossible to see inside the shop.

  “I don’t know that I like this,” said Rollison. “Does he live on his own?”

  “Yerse.”

  “What about his wife?”

  “ ‘E’d be a long way from ‘ere if ‘e lived wiv ‘er,” declared the woman with a wide grin. “She’s bin dead these ten years, mister! ‘ere! Wotcher doing?”

  He could smell gas coming from above his head; it was too strong for him to be mistaken.

  Rollison hunched a shoulder and thrust it against the glass panel of the shop door which was pasted over with advertising bills. After three attempts, the glass broke. Rollison ignored the curious glances of passers-by who promptly became spectators as he removed a large piece of glass and put his hand inside and opened the door.

  As he stepped inside, a uniformed constable came up.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Joe Craik In Person

  No one was in the shop.

  There was a smell of bacon and fat, although everything looked scrupulously clean, and the floor was covered with sawdust. Goods were piled high on the shelves, neatly ticketed. Rollison glanced round and then looked behind the counters.

  The constable came in.

  “What—” he began, and then recognised Rollison. “I say, sir!” he exclaimed.

  Rollison smiled at him fleetingly.

  “I’m looking for Craik,” he said, opening a door which led to an over-furnished, drably decorated parlour. This was empty, too. He went through into the kitchen but no one was there.

  The stairs led from a tiny passage between the shop and the parlour. Rollison mounted the stairs quickly but hesitated when he reached the landing. There were three doors, all closed.

  From one there came the strong smell of gas.

  Rollison looked into the empty rooms before finding that the third door was locked. It was a thin, freshly-painted one with a brass handle. Rollison put his shoulder against it and heaved; it was easy to break open. As he staggered forward, the smell of gas was very strong.

  “You all right up there, sir?” called the constable.

  “Yes!” gasped Rollison, stifling a cough. He hurried across the room, holding his breath, and caught a glimpse of the man on the bed; frightened eyes stared at him. He flung up the one, large window and drew in a deep breath of fresh air.

  A crowd had gathered outside and some were standing on the opposite side of the road, gazing at the place.

  He turned round; the man on the bed held a length of rubber tubing in his hand and from it there came the faint hiss of escaping gas. Rollison saw that the other end of the tube was connected with the gas bracket. He reached up and turned it off. The little, frightened eyes watched every movement; Joe Craik reminded him of nothing more than a scared rabbit.

  Rollison reached his side, making him cringe back, and lifted him from the bed, saying in a low voice:

  “Keep quiet, if you want to stop a scandal.”

  Craik muttered something that was inaudible.

  Rollison kicked a chair into position and sat the man on it in front of the window—he could not be seen from outside.

  “Stay there,” exhorted Rollison.

  He went into the other bedroom and opened the windows, then went downstairs. The policeman had his hands full for two urchins were standing and grinning at him, one of them holding a tin of beans in grubby hands. Three people had entered the shop in addition to the woman and dozens of curious faces peered through the doorway.

  “Put it down and be off with you!” the policeman said to the child, is it all right upstairs, sir?”

  The boy dropped the tin close enough to the constable’s foot to make him step back then turned and ran with his companion. At the door, one of them put his tongue out and the other drew his hand from beneath his jersey and exhibited a second tin before tearing off. There was a roar of laughter from the crowd.

  “Well, then, I’ll ‘elp meself!” declared the woman.

  “No, you don’t,” said the policeman.

  “My ole man—” she began.

  “Yes, it’s all right,” said Rollison interrupting, “Craik had a heart spasm but he’s got some tablets and he’s all right now. It’s just as well we came.” He stressed the “we”.

  “Oh, that’s good.” The constable began to deal with the crowd, helped by two colleagues who soon arrived.

  There was no smell of gas in the shop but Rollison could detect it at the foot of the stairs. He went into the stuffy parlour and opened the window and the door. In the shop again he saw Kemp, still in an open-necked shirt and flannels and with his left eye less swollen.

  “Is it all right for me to come in?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Rollison and Kemp joined him. “Don’t talk.” He said nothing more until they were halfway up the stairs. Then he looked round at Kemp with a wry smile. “Craik tried to gas himself but I think I’ve satisfied the police that it was a heart attack. Can you smell gas?”

  “Now you come to mention it, yes.” Kemp looked hard at Rollison but said nothing until they reached the bedroom.

  Craik was looking over his shoulder and, when he saw Kemp, he tried to get up.

  “Don’t get up, Joe,” said Kemp. “And don’t worry—Mr Rollison has told everyone you had a heart attack.”

  He closed the
door.

  Rollison disconnected the rubber tubing and coiled it round his fingers. The room was spotlessly clean but the wainscotting had been broken in several places and one stretch had recently been replaced by newer, lighter-brown wood. He looked at it thoughtfully, hearing Joe Craik’s voice as if from a long way off. The man talked in a monotonous, frightened undertone as Kemp pulled up another chair and sat beside him.

  “I couldn’t bear it, Mr Kemp. The disgrace, the horrible disgrace!” He shuddered. “I’ve never been so much as inside a police-station before and to be charged with—with murder.”“

  “But you were released,” Kemp said.

  “You—you don’t know the people around here, sir. They’ll say I did it. I daren’t show my face in church again—oh, why didn’t he let me do away with myself?”

  He turned and looked at Rollison.

  “Why didn’t you? What did you want to interfere for?” He tried to get to his feet. His eyes were filled with tears and his face was twisted like a baby’s, his lips were quivering. “A man’s got a right to do what he likes with his own life!”

  Kemp said: “You’ll feel better soon, Joe. I’ll go and make you a cup of tea.”

  “I—I won’t never be able to lift me head again,” moaned Craik. “I’d be better out of the way.”

  “Do you want everyone to think you killed O’Hara?” demanded Rollison, as Kemp stood up.

  “It wouldn’t make no difference to me, if I was dead!”

  Rollison glanced at Kemp who nodded and went downstairs. Craik continued to stare into Rollison’s eyes, his own still watering and his body a-tremble. Rollison turned to the wall, went down on one knee and was touching the wainscotting when Craik gasped:

  “What do you think you’re doing?”

  Rollison pulled at the new piece of wainscotting; it came away easily. He groped inside the hole which lay revealed and touched smooth and cold. He drew out two bottles and stood up, holding one in each hand.

  Craik rose unsteadily to his feet.

  “Don’t—don’t tell the curate, Mr Rollison!” His voice seemed strangled. “Don’t tell ‘im!” His voice grew almost hysterical but could not be heard outside the room. “I—I never used to touch it, only since my wife died—I been so lonely. You don’t know what it is to be lonely, I don’t drink much, only a little drop now and again.”