The Toff and the Deadly Priest (2 page)

 

“Who is that?” asked Kemp, without looking round.

“Rollison,” said Rollison.

“Oh.” The younger man turned slowly and looked into the Toff's face. His own held a curiously drawn expression – as if the past hour had put years on to his life. “Someone doesn't like me,” he said, harshly.

“That can cut both ways,” said Rollison, lightly.

He wanted to see how the other would react, and watched him carefully. After a long pause, during which his face was quite blank except for the glitter in his eyes, Kemp's lips began to curve.

“You're a good cure for depression,” he said, in a lighter voice. I was to have met two parishioners here. Instead, the door was open and when I switched on the light, this is what I found. They've made a thorough job, haven't they?”

“Not bad,” admitted Rollison, “but there isn't much that can't be repaired, as far as I can see, so perhaps they want to keep you busy. Who were the two people whom you expected to be waiting for you?”

“A Mr. and Mrs. Whiting,” Kemp said, absently. “Probably they got scared, and I can't blame them. I shouldn't imagine I'm going to have many friends in the near future!” The edge was back in his voice, as he proffered cigarettes. Rollison took one.

“You don't know your people yet,” he said. “Those who were lukewarm towards you before will now rally round, and people who've never set foot in the church will probably come in on your side. You've a chance in a thousand, if you'll take it.”

Kemp looked at him incredulously.

“Are you serious?”

“Yes,” said Rollison, “I've been acquainted with these people for years, and I don't think you need worry about lacking friends – you can count on it that those who aren't for you now, are against you, which will be a help.” He stepped to the door and called Jolly, who entered without a change of expression; he bowed to Kemp. “Move around a bit, Jolly,” said Rollison, “and try to find out something about this. Freddie Day might have heard a whisper, or else—”

“I think I know whom to approach, sir,” said Jolly, faintly reproachful.

Rollison grinned. “So you should! If I'm not here when you've finished, I'll leave a message.”

“Very good, sir.” Jolly went out, and Kemp's gaze followed him, as if he were too good to be true.

“Who is Eddy Day?” he asked.

“Freddie,” corrected Rollison. “He's the manager of the pub on the corner of Jupe Street.”

Kemp frowned. “I don't know the licensed victuallers.”

Rollison stared. “The—” he chuckled, and went on jocularly: “If you call pub-keepers licensed victuallers, you'll make your people think they've got to learn a new language – it would be easier for you to learn theirs!” When Kemp looked slightly shocked, he went on in a sharper voice: “The pubs are part of your parish, aren't they?”

“Yes,” admitted Kemp, uncomfortably, “but I – I – I always thought—”

“That they were dens of vice and iniquity in the East End,” said Rollison. “Yes, I suppose you would, but the quicker you get the idea out of your head the better. You'll find the good as well as the bad go regularly for their pint, and if you try to make ‘em give it up, you'll come a cropper. None of which is my business, strictly speaking,” he added, more lightly. “This job is. Have you got anything in mind?”

“I suppose I'd better tell the police,” said Kemp, slowly.

“Why such reluctance?”

“I didn't get on with them very well before,” said Kemp. “I mean, about Craik.”

“If that were the only reason, I'd say go to see them,” said Rollison. “But it might be a good idea not to tell them yet. They'll hear about it, but unless you approach them officially, they'll do nothing. If you ask them to investigate, they'll probably start a round-up, and they might pick up half-a-dozen of the people concerned, but your stock would go down with a bump.”

“I wish I could understand you,” said Kemp, after a short pause.

“Taken by and large,” said Rollison, “East Enders don't like the police. Oh, they rub shoulders and get along all right, but it's an uneasy peace. A man who runs to the police if he's been beaten up or had his pocket picked, doesn't win much favour, but if he finds out who does it and repays him in kind, that's a different story.”

“Confound it! I can't go round wrecking people's homes!”

“Need you take me so literally?” asked Rollison. “Ever done any boxing, Kemp?”

“A bit, at Oxford,” Kemp answered.

“I thought you looked as if you could pack a punch.”

“I suppose you do realise that I'm—”

“A parson, yes. Is that any reason why you shouldn't behave like a human being?” asked Rollison. “You want to get on top of this trouble, and you want the people friendly, don't you?”

Kemp said: “Yes.” He spoke with restraint, as if he had difficulty in preventing himself from saying just how badly he wanted both those things.

“Then give my way a trial,” advised Rollison. “You'll soon find out if it flops.” He stepped forward towards the stage and looked at the writing thoughtfully, murmuring: “A nice taste in capitals. Now, let's get busy,” he said more briskly. “It's personal, but it isn't aimed at you because you're Ronald Kemp, recently from Oxford, and trying to muscle in on a new district. It's because of something you've done, or you want to do, which is upsetting someone's applecart. Have you any ideas about it?”

“Not the faintest!”

“Try to think some up,” urged Rollison. “Go over everything that's happened since you arrived and find out whose corns you've trodden on. What kind of reforms have you tried to start?” he added drily. “You haven't seriously had a shot at turning the pagans teetotal, have you?”

“Great Scott, no! I don't know that I've done anything that could offend anyone,” Kemp went on worriedly. “I've started one or two of the mission halls going again; there hadn't been any meetings or social evenings for some time. And I've tried to step up the collection of old clothes for some of the poorer people. Do you think they resent that kind of charity?”

“They'd be queer fish if they liked it,” Rollison said. “But they don't resent it, especially if they're clothes for the women and children. Kemp, get one thing firmly fixed in your head. Most of your parishioners have exactly the same ideas of right and wrong as you have, although they differ in degree. They like a fighter, even if they don't like what he fights for. If a man doesn't drink or smoke, that's his affair, but if he tries to convert others to his way of thinking, it's a different matter. That goes for any kind of habit, vice or con – the one way you might get some of them to look at it differently is by example – only by example. Do you see what I'm driving at?”

“Yes,” said Kemp, slowly. “As a matter of fact, Mr. Cartwright said something on the same lines, but I haven't been able to see him for several weeks.” He looked rueful. “I didn't pay much attention at the time.”

“Try to, now,” urged Rollison. “What was I saying? Oh – item one: you've upset someone badly, and you're the only one who can find out how. It may be simply a matter of having trodden on someone's corns, but it doesn't look like that to me,” he admitted, thoughtfully.

“What does it look like?” asked Kemp.

“A much bigger motive,” said Rollison. “But that's guesswork, and won't help us. This Mr. and Mrs. Whiting – where do they live?”

“In Little Lane – it's off Jupe Street.”

“I know it,” said Rollison. “Let's go and see them.”

Kemp obviously did not see much point in them both going, but he raised no serious objection and, after closing the door, the lock of which had been broken by the wreckers, they walked through the blackout towards Little Lane.

They had not gone fifty yards before Rollison knew that they were being followed.

He said nothing to Kemp until they reached the corner, and then spoke in a whisper.

“Walk straight on, and make as much noise as you can. Don't argue!”

He heard Kemp's intake of breath as the man was about to speak, but obediently the curate crossed the end of the lane and stamped towards Whitechapel Road. Rollison slipped back into the lane, and after a few seconds, two men passed; they made little sound and the soft padding of their footsteps told him that they were wearing rubber-soled shoes.

He wished that he was, too.

He moved after them, drawing closer. It was too dark for him to see Kemp, but he could just make out the figures of the others. Both were short men who moved easily and silently.

Kemp's footsteps rang out clearly, and the two short men quickened their pace.

Rollison followed suit, caring less now about being heard, but the others appeared too intent on their task to keep on the alert for anyone else.

Rollison suddenly shone his torch full on the two men, who were within a few feet of Kemp. One of them had an arm upraised, and was holding a cosh.

“Look out, Kemp!” cried Rollison.

He broke into a run as Kemp swung round; the cosh appeared to strike him on the shoulder, but with nothing like the power with which he struck at his assailant. The man toppled over before his companion swung round, to get away – only to run straight into Rollison.

He tried to dodge aside; Rollison put out a leg and tripped him up.

“Are you all right?” he called to Kemp.

After a pause, Kemp called back in a strained voice. “Rollison, I think I've hurt him.”

“Even if you've broken his neck, it wouldn't rate as manslaughter! Is he unconscious?”

The man he had tripped up was foxing as he lay motionless on the floor, and he kept the beam of light on him.

“Yes,” called Kemp.

“Make sure, then pick him up and take him back to the hall,” said Rollison. “I – ah!”

His own victim sprang to his feet like a spring-heeled-Jack and made to dart down the street, but Rollison shot out a hand and caught his coat, yanking him back. He fended off an attempt to kick him in the stomach, got a grip on the man's arm and held it behind his back in a hammer-lock. The man began to squeal.

“The more you wriggle, the more it will hurt,” Rollison said quietly.

No one appeared to have heard the scuffle, and the only sounds were their voices and Kemp's footsteps. Kemp came up, carrying a man in his arms, and Rollison spoke mildly.

“I don't like ribbing you all the time, old chap, but if he comes round he could get his hands on your throat, or gouge your eyes out, or knee you in the stomach. Put him over your shoulder in a fireman's hold, and keep a grip on one of his wrists. That's better!” Although he could not see clearly in the light of the torch, he approved the speed with which Kemp took his advice. Together, they went to the hall. The squealing of the Toff's captive grew louder. Still no one appeared to hear them, and they entered the hall without having encountered a soul.

Kemp lowered his victim to a broken bench.

“Surely someone heard us?” he said.

Rollison chuckled.

“Half Jupe Street heard us, but it wasn't their business. We haven't done so badly, have we?”

“Did you expect this?”

“I wasn't altogether surprised,” admitted Rollison, “but I didn't hope for a brace of them. Nasty looking brutes, aren't they? Have you ever seen either of them before?”

“No,” said Kemp.

Looped round the right wrist of his victim, who was still unconscious but not badly hurt, was a cosh – a weapon not unlike a rubber truncheon, but smooth and round at one end and narrow near the wrist. He pulled it off; it was flexible and he swished it through the air, letting it go perilously close to the man who was cowering back against the wall. The weapon missed his head by inches.

“No!” he gasped. “No!”

“Sorry,” said Rollison, perfunctorily. “Do you know this weapon, Kemp?”

“No,” said Kemp again.

“It's a common-or-garden cosh,” Rollison told him, “and it's as popular here as the knuckleduster, razor and flick-knife, but less dangerous. Feel it.” Kemp fingered the thicker end. “It's filled with lead shot,” went on Rollison, “and is made like that so that it will knock a man out but leave no permanent injury, probably not even a bruise. So they didn't intend to kill, which should console you.” He smiled crookedly at Kemp, but before the curate could reply, he swung round on the conscious man and spoke in a rough voice. “Now! It's time you talked, who sent you after Mr. Kemp?”

 

 

The man's mouth dropped open and he tried to back further against the wall, but only succeeded in knocking the back of his head against it. The Toff moved the cosh again, not violently, but close to his frightened eyes. The man was undersized, round-faced, with a broken nose and an ugly scar over his right eye. From his cauliflower ears the Toff classed him as an ex-prize fighter. He was a man of perhaps forty, and in spite of his fear, there was a cunning glint in his eyes.

He drew in a hiss of breath.

“I – I just ‘appened to b—”

“You just happened to meet a friend and you were walking along with him when all of a sudden he jumped out at someone in front of him,” said Rollison, sarcastically. “I know all about that one, I've heard it before. I'd followed you far enough to know that you were both involved, so don't lie. Who told you to. . .”

“I dunno!” squealed the man.

“You dunno, don't you,” said Rollison. “Kemp, I'm going to give you a lesson in how to make a stubborn man talk. You might find it useful, but don't say who taught you!” He raised the cosh as if he meant business, and Kemp actually put out a hand to restrain him.

“I'll tell you!” gasped the little man, rearing up against the wall, “‘Arry Keller gimme a quid to come along wiv Spike!”

Rollison glanced at the man on the floor.

“And is he Spike?”

“Spike Adams, that's his name, mister.”

“And what's your name?” demanded Rollison.

“I – I don't ‘ave to tell yer
my
name, do I?” asked the little man, in a wheedling tone, “I've told yer the names of the others. Gimme a break. I never did nothing, I only drifted along with Spike, that's all.”

“When you've given me your name and waited for half an hour, you can go,” said Rollison.

“You
mean
that?” The man's little eyes lit up.

“Yes,” said Rollison – and released a flood of talk.

“My name's ‘Arris, mister, Tom ‘Arris. I live dahn in River Row, everyone knows Tom Arris – me name's an ‘ouseold word. Never beaten, I wasn't. Had two hundred and two fights an' never beaten, that's me. I'm dahn on me luck, mister,” went on Harris in maudlin tones. “I wouldn't have done such a thing as I done tonight if I ‘adn't been. A quid means a lot to me, an' I never knew what Spike was going to do. That's Gawd's truth.”

“I don't think!” said Rollison. “Go and sit on the stage, and don't move until I tell you to.”

“Me wife'll be expecting me,” declared Harris, pleadingly, “I promised I wouldn't be no later than one o'clock. You wouldn't let a woman be left alone at night these days, would you?”

“Some women, gladly,” said Rollison. “Get on the stage.”

Harris shrugged his shoulders, and slouched off.

“Keep an eye on him,” Rollison said,
sotto voce,
“he might start throwing the chairs about.”

He spoke loudly enough for the man on the floor to hear, if he were conscious, and stepped towards the other wall. The man bounded to his feet and darted for the door. Rollison picked up a chair and threw it so that the man went sprawling.

“Now, Spike,” said Rollison, chidingly. “Foxing won't help you.” He strolled over to the man, who made no further attempt to get up, and smiled at him. “So Harry Keller sent you, did he?”

Adams glared up.

“So you're not a talker, like Harris?” said Rollison, “I suppose I couldn't expect to find two on the same night.” He glanced at Kemp, who was trying to watch him and keep an eye on Harris at the same time. “I don't think we need worry about this customer, do you? The police will look after him; he'll probably get twelve months for using the cosh.”

Adams broke across the words.

“If you run me in, I'll see you get beaten up. Got me?”

“It's like that, is it?” asked Rollison, thrusting a hand into his pocket and swinging the cosh with the other. “I don't think you've recognised me, Spike.”

“I don't give a damn who you are!”

“You should, you know,” said Rollison. “For now I come to think of it, I've seen and heard a lot about you. Try using your memory.” When Adams kept silent, he went on in an amiable tone: “Come! You should be able to do better than this!”

A remarkable change came over Spike Adams's face. One moment he was glaring defiance; the next he was staring incredulously and defiance seemed to ooze away from him. His body relaxed and his lips began to move, but he only managed to stutter. Rollison stood smiling down at him. Kemp gave up all pretence of watching the man on the stage.

“Gawd!” exclaimed Spike, at last. “You're the Toff!”

“That's right, Spike.”

“You – you
ain't in this affair.”

“Didn't Harry Keller tell you I was,” asked Rollison. “He should be fair, shouldn't he?” His voice changed. “Let's have it: what do you know?”

Spike began to talk freely.

“I dunno much, mister, that's a fact. Keller gimme the orders, said I was to beat the parson up. That's all. He never said I might run inter the Toff. Listen, mister, you wouldn't run me in, would you? I 'ad to do it. If I hadn't, Keller would've put some of the boys on me.”

“Which boys?” asked Rollison.

“He's got a dozen in his mob!”

“Harry Keller and his dozen, is it?” mused Rollison. “Where can I find Keller?”

“I – I dunno,” said Spike, and his voice became a squeak. “I don't, I tell yer – that's Gawd's truth. He's not one who stays in the same place for long. Last I heard, he was at the Docker, but he ain't there now. I seed ‘im in the street ter-night, that's when he gimme the job.”

Rollison weighed the cosh in his hand, and deliberated. Harris was staring fixedly from the stage; the name ‘Toff' had affected him as much as it had Spike Adams. Only the heavy breathing of the prisoners broke the silence.

Kemp looked from one to the other, incredulous.

“All right,” Rollison said at last. “I'll take your word this time, but if you've lied to me, I'll fix you. Don't forget it. The police will be glad of a chance to put both of you inside,” he went on, turning to include Harris in his homily. “If Keller wants you to do any more of his dirty work, send word to me.”

“Okay, mister!” Spike gasped.

He scrambled to his feet, and Harris jumped down from the stage and joined him. Rollison nodded towards the door, and the men nearly fell over each other in their eagerness to get away. Harris closed the door carefully behind them.

Kemp drew a deep breath.

“Great Scott, Rollison! I've never seen anything like it!”

Rollison smiled. “I hope you often will. They know we could land them in jail for a year, and added to it they have a curious idea that I'm unbeatable and infallible.”

“But that man's face, when he recognised you!”

Rollison laughed.

“Once upon a time someone started a legend about me, and I've kept up the illusion ever since,” he said, lightly. “We're making progress. We want to interview Mr. Harry Keller as soon as we can. A curious business,” he added. “I think Adams told the truth when he said he doesn't know where Keller lives, and that he's not one of the mob. So Keller wanted to make quite sure that if things went wrong, no one could say much about what he's up to.”

“Can you see any sense in it?” demanded Kemp.

“There is sense, but no reason for it,” said Rollison. “Who first suggested that I might help?”

“The Whitings,” said Kemp.

“We really ought to go to see them,” said Rollison, glancing at his watch. “It's half-past one, but—”

“We can't knock them up at this time of night!”

“That won't worry them,” said Rollison, confidently.

“Look here!” said Kemp. “Never mind the Whitings – why did you let those men go?”

“Is that still worrying you?” asked Rollison. “They'll run straight to Keller and tell him about me,” said Rollison. “It's one thing to persecute a newcomer to the district – and there's a peculiar idea that curates can't hit back, but Spike knows better now! – and another thing to operate against me. I know the East End and I've a lot of friends here. It will be interesting to see what happens when Keller gets to know I'm involved.”

“I give up!” exclaimed Kemp.

“Not you, you've only just started! Let's see the Whitings.” Kemp protested half-heartedly, but Rollison was firm. This time, no one followed them from the hall. The stars were still out, and a breeze from the river made it cooler. Rollison walked leisurely, and Kemp towered beside him, occasionally starting to speak but always thinking better of it. They were halfway down Little Lane, shining their torches on the numbers of the houses, when Kemp said abruptly: “I say, what about your man?”

“He'll be all right.”

“But you were going to leave a message for him!”

“He won't be finished for another hour or more,” said Rollison. “If he should get back and find us gone, he'll telephone my flat. Don't worry about Jolly. What was the Whitings' number?”

“Forty-nine,” Kemp told him.

“Forty-three-five-seven-nine,” said Rollison. “Here we are.”

The house was one of a long, narrow terrace which, in daylight, looked dreary and dilapidated. There were no pavements in Little Lane, and the road was cobbled. An odour of decay and stale cooking hung about the lane, but there was no chink of light from any window, no sign of anyone awake.

Rollison knocked sharply on the door.

“I hope they don't think it's an awful nerve,” said Kemp. “I hope you think Craik's worth the trouble,” said Rollison, tartly.

“Oh – sorry!” Kemp made no further comment, and Rollison knocked again, but there was no answer.

“Do they live here on their own?” asked Rollison.

“There's an old lady – Mrs. Whiting's mother – and three children,” said Kemp.

“No boarders?”

“I've never heard of any.”

Rollison knocked again. The sound echoed along the street and faded into a brooding silence, but brought no response. Rollison rattled the letter box, bent down and peered inside. A faint glow of light showed at the far end of the passage.

“That's peculiar,” he said. “Stay here, Kemp – don't go away, and don't let anyone distract your attention.”

“Where—” began Kemp, but he spoke to the darkness, for Rollison had disappeared, soundlessly.

Rollison hurried to the end of the lane, then along Jupe Street to a narrow alley. There were tiny gardens here, back and front, for Jupe Street had been built when some measure of enlightenment had permeated Victorian minds, and even East Enders had been allowed room in which to breathe.

There was no gateway to the alley.

Rollison counted the wooden gates as he passed, shining his torch until he reached Number 49. He put it out, and opened a gate noisily. He left it open, and walked with heavy tread for a few yards, then switched off his torch and went on again stealthily, counting the houses by their roofs outlined against the star-lit sky. He stopped at Number 47.

He thought he heard voices.

The back gate was open, and he heard a man stirring – as if he were waiting inside the tiny yard, and getting impatient. Soon, a door opened and a sliver of light showed. It disappeared as the door closed.

“Okay?” a man asked, softly.

“I've scared the lights out of them,” said another, in a cultured voice which carried a hint of laughter. “They won't go to church in a hurry!”

Rollison stood in the doorway as the men approached, holding his torch in front of him. As they drew within a yard or two of him, walking side by side, he switched on the torch, and the dazzling light brought them abruptly to a standstill.

“And which of you is Mr. Keller?” inquired Rollison, politely.