John Creasey - The Toff And The Curate

“Will you please say what you mean?”

“Yes indeed,” Rollison promised. “I mean that this morning I didn’t feel too sure of Ronald but now I’m convinced that he is being very cleverly framed. I think he told the truth when he said that he had been called to the club by telephone and it was done so that the police should find him there. The other men who matter escaped and seemed confident that the police won’t find them. They allowed themselves to be seen going in by Jolly, presumably to get me there too. They have realised that the police suspect Kemp and are doing their best to make sure it goes further. We’ve a big job on our hands and there isn’t much time to lose.”

“You’re not just saying this to comfort me, I hope,” said Isobel, quietly.

“Now why should I try anything so foolish with a big, fine lass like you! No, this last attempt is so glaringly obvious. Kemp is being framed and it’s up to us to prove it. Do you know the foreman at East Wharf?”

“Owen, you mean? Yes.”

“Do you like him?”

“He’s quite an inoffensive little man, I would say.”

Rollison grimaced. “He wouldn’t like to hear you say so, he fancies himself as a he-man, a slave-driver, a—but that doesn’t matter! Instead of telling Kemp about the meeting in my flat, tell Owen. He’s on the overtime shift tonight but you’ll have to make the opportunity yourself. Can you do it?”

“I’ll manage it somehow!”

“That’s the girl!” exclaimed Rollison. “Don’t let him guess that you’ve been prompted, drop it into ordinary conversation but try to make sure that only Owen can hear you. As for time—well, make your own. Whatever time you talk to him, tell him the meeting is due three-quarters of an hour afterwards.”

“Why?” asked Isobel.

“Because he might try to break up the party,” said Rollison. “If he does, he’ll have to work quickly. In short, if he’s really involved and alarmed, he’ll send some of his boy-friends and there’ll be quite a shiny.”

“Will you be all right?”

“I shall be wonderful!” Rollison assured her. “Don’t worry about me! Think of Billy the Bull.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Isobel and began to smile.

“That’s the spirit!” said Rollison. “Let’s go, Jolly!”

They left Isobel still smiling. On the way to Gresham Terrace, Jolly asked whether Rollison really meant what he had said. Rollison left him in no doubt. He believed Gregson and ‘Keller’ had seized on his interest in Kemp to fasten guilt on to the curate whose resentment was likely to create a wrong impression with the police.

“And you’re throwing a party tonight,” Rollison went on. “Billy the Bull and three or four of the heftier members of Bill’s club— feed them well, don’t spare the points! If Owen’s our man, be ready for him.”

“Won’t you be there, sir?”

“I don’t know,” said Rollison, “we haven’t been able to plan far ahead in this show yet. I’ll make the arrangements with Bill Ebbutt and the guests will start arriving at any time after seven o’clock.”

“I will entertain them as well as I can,” Jolly assured him. “If you are right, sir, they are being very clever—almost too clever.”

“That’s it, precisely,” said Rollison. “Too clever by half. I don’t believe in such open-handed presents to the police and when Grice is more himself I think he’ll begin to have doubts, although he’ll have to go on with the investigation into Kemp. On the whole, it shouldn’t do Kemp any harm.”

“Provided he gets a clean bill, sir,” said Jolly.

“Yes,” said Rollison, unsmilingly. “Yes, provided we can clear him. You know one thing.”

“What particular thing have you in mind, sir?”

“From the beginning, they wanted to get rid of Kemp. I’m assuming that he is a victim and not a conspirator! They tried to drum him out, by ostracising him. That failed. They tried to kill him by accident. That failed—and they realised that if he were murdered, it would mean a tremendous fuss. Then I gave them the idea of making Kemp the scapegoat and they didn’t lose much time. They have always a scapegoat, from the shadowy Keller who might or might not exist. There’s always a dummy, be it a person or a place. Very clever, Jolly!”

“Yes, sir. Do you think the whisky is brought in at East Wharf and distributed from there?”

“It could be.”

“I think you told me you had asked the Superintendent to give special attention to the Irish dock-workers, sir—were you serious about that?”“

“Partly,” said Rollison. “But only because O’Hara and the ‘other Irishman’ whom Craik mentioned, set me thinking along those lines.”

“If Craik has been a party, even to warehousing the whisky,” said Jolly, “he might be able to give you information.”

“Yes, probably. But the odds are that none of the halls was used to store the stuff. When that theory was exploded much of the case against Craik being hand-in-glove with them was blown sky-high.”

“I suppose so, sir,” said Jolly, reluctantly.

“In other words, your advice is still watch Craik,” said Rollison. “Yes. We mustn’t forget that he tried to kill himself. You’re right, Jolly, he wants watching. Lots of people want watching very closely. And we want to start thinking. If the whisky is unloaded at the wharf, it’s probably taken away immediately. Therefore, lorry drivers would be involved. Who does the cartage work for the wharf?”

“A firm named Straker Brothers,” said Jolly. “I have seen the name on a number of lorries there.”

Rollison paused.

“Straker Brothers? Jolly, I haven’t been very good—not very good at all,” he repeated, softly. “I think perhaps we’re getting places! Straker Brothers,” he repeated. “Jolly, I saw a Mr Arthur Straker this morning and he gave Kemp a very good reputation. Curious fact. Mr Straker lives in South Audley Street. Find out whether he is connected with Straker Brothers, will you? Find out, also, if the same firm do much work for any of the big distilleries. Don’t try the police but otherwise move mountains to find out. Straker Brothers,” he repeated and went to the telephone.

After he had dialled a Mayfair number, a courteous voice announced that it was the residence of the Rev Martin Anstruther. Anstruther, who had been the vicar of Kemp’s first church, spoke to him immediately afterwards and, in a quiet, cultured voice, said that he would gladly see Mr Rollison.

After arranging to go at once, Rollison went to his bedroom and for the first time in this affair put a loaded automatic in his pocket.

Twenty minutes later, at nearly one o’clock, the gentle-voiced Mr Anstruther received Rollison in a spacious room, the walls of which were lined with books and a glance at these showed him that they ranged from theology to philosophy, including works in ancient Greek and Latin. The room was warm, the carpet soft underfoot and the furniture heavy but in keeping with the study of a scholar. That the Rev Martin Anstruther was a scholar was apparent at the first sight of his high forehead and the gentle expression on his lined face. He was an academician, who doubtless had to force himself to take part in the bustle which a church in Mayfair meant for him. There could have been no greater contrast between this man and Kemp.

“How can I help you, Mr Rollison?” he inquired.

“I’m trying to help a friend of mine,” said Rollison. “He once worked with you, sir—a Mr Ronald Kemp.”

“Oh, indeed. And how is he?” There was no animosity in the old, quiet voice.

“Very fit, very energetic—and in trouble,” answered Rollison.

“I am afraid that young man will always be in trouble until he learns discretion,” said Anstruther, with a charming smile. “I am afraid that he was rather too boisterous for the curacy here, although I liked him very well. He was surprisingly well-read and very sincere. I thought his unconventional methods were unsuited to this part of London and yet—I sympathised with him. Had he stayed with me, I think he would have done a great deal of good—”

“Why did he go?” asked Rollison.

“There were several reasons,” said Anstruther. “The main one was that in his earnest endeavours to root out vice, he laid himself open to grave suspicion of being addicted to it.” The old cleric smiled again. “I am afraid that in the world of today, appearances count for too much. Many of my parishioners disliked being guided in their devotions by a man who, it was widely known, spent much time in the haunts of the worldly.”

There was a hint of irony in his voice. “Finally, I had to ask him to cease his activities and I am afraid he lost his temper. A very headstrong young man. Pride will be a great disadvantage to him until he conquers it.”

“The deadly sin,” said Rollison, smiling.

“No sin is deadly in the young,” murmured Anstruther.

“A generous concession,” said Rollison. “Who lodged the complaints against him in the first place?”

The old eyes grew sober and gazed at him steadily. Very little passed Anstruther by, thought Rollison, wondering if Anstruther was going to ask him why he wanted to know.

Instead:

“Is Kemp in serious trouble?” he asked.

“Very serious indeed.”

“And you hope I can help him.”

“I do, very much,” said Rollison.

Anstruther seemed to go into a brown study and then said:

“Several people told me that he was getting into bad company and, finally, Mr Straker advised me that the feeling against him was so strong that he would either have to cease his activities or else resign. Mr Straker’s judgment is rarely at fault. I am quite at a loss to see how the information will help you, Mr Rollison.”

“It might,” Rollison said and stood up.

“Sit down, please,” said Anstruther, his gaze so compelling that Rollison obeyed. “I have been frank with you. I hope you will be as frank with me. How can such information help you?”

Rollison pondered and then said quietly:

“I understood from Mr Straker that you, not he, had insisted on Kemp’s resignation. A slip of the tongue, perhaps—or I may have misunderstood him.”

“Yes, you might have done. Look after the young man, Mr Rollison. If there is any other way I can help, please do not hesitate to let me know.”

“I won’t,” Rollison promised and shook hands.

He felt the influence of Anstruther’s words and manner as he walked from the house but was not so absorbed that he failed to notice that he was being followed. He gave no indication that he knew but went by a roundabout way to the flat.

The man following him was small and wiry, flashily dressed and at great pains to pretend that he was interested in everyone but Rollison. He had not been at hand when Rollison had left the flat, nor had he followed him to Anstruther’s house, so probably the house had been watched.

It could only be because Straker had wanted to find out whether he pursued his inquiries.

Even then, he did not think that any bare-faced attempt at harming him would be made in Gresham Terrace although he was wary as he approached his flat and put his hand to his pocket, gripping a small automatic pistol. A taxi turned into the street and came at a rattling pace towards him. He saw the flashily dressed man motion towards its driver.

The taxi slowed down and a man in the back fired at Rollison through the open window.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

More Of Mr Straker

Rollison fired back, dodging to one side as he did so. His aim was wide but so was that of the man in the taxi. As it drew level, two more shots were aimed at Rollison who aimed more carefully. As the taxi reached the corner, one of the rear tyres burst. The taxi swerved across the road. The flashy man took to his heels. The driver and his passenger jumped from the taxi as it was moving and raced towards Piccadilly. A dozen people saw the taxi crash against the curb.

Rollison turned towards the flat as Jolly came hurrying from it.

“Keep the police away, if you can,” said Rollison, “stall them for ten minutes, anyhow.”

“I’ll do my best, sir.” Jolly hurried towards the scene of the crash where a man was already pointing towards Rollison while talking to a policeman. Rollison hurried upstairs and telephoned Grice.

“I’ve been wanting—” began Grice.

“Never mind what you’ve been wanting,” said Rollison, urgently. “A Mr Arthur Straker lives in South Audley Street. Have him watched closely and don’t let him get away, whatever you do. When you’ve fixed that, you might send a man to Gresham Terrace to convince the constable who is shortly coming to see me that I only fired at the taxi in self-defence!”

“Fired? What taxi?” cried Grice. Rollison heard him lift another telephone and say into it: “Come in at once, Bray.”

“I think it was the one in which I was taken for a ride the other night,” said Rollison. “The driver has escaped. It was a daring attempt to stop me,” he went on, “but there isn’t time to discuss that now. Do find out what you can about Straker.”

“I know quite a lot about Straker already,” said Grice, unexpectedly. “He is a director of a firm of cartage and transport contractors and some of his vans have been used for delivering—”

“Whisky!” cried Rollison, exultantly, “what a pity we can’t be entirely frank with each other! Anything on Straker himself?”

“No. We’ve been looking for one of his men.”

“Your man is Straker himself,” said Rollison confidently. “Ah, here come the coppers. Hustle your sergeant over here, won’t you.”

“He won’t be long,” promised Grice.

Rollison replaced the receiver then looked up into the face of a youthful policeman who had entered with Jolly.

By the time Rollison had made a statement, the sergeant from the Yard had arrived—a clean-cut individual who reassured the constable and even congratulated him on using shorthand.

When they had gone, Rollison said to Jolly:

“That’s Bray, the man who arrested Craik. Grice is fair.”

“Bray is having a chance to rehabilitate himself, presumably,” said Jolly who was obviously thinking of something else. “Do you know what made the men attack you?”

“Yes. A worried Arthur Straker!”

“I thought perhaps that was the case, sir—I have been able to find out that his firm not only serves the East Wharf but many others nearby and also has contracts for two firms of whisky distillers. It wouldn’t be surprising if we have found the distributors.”

“We certainly have,” said Rollison, beaming. “Things should move fast now. Grice will have evidence against Straker but Straker won’t know it yet, I shall still be his enemy Number I. There isn’t much to do but watch Kemp. They might still try to make him the scapegoat. I should have asked Grice—”

He broke off at a ring at the front door. It was Grice who came in by himself.

“Enter the bird of ill-omen,” greeted Rollison, promptly. “Have you released Kemp, yet? If not, it’s time you did.”