The Toff and the Deadly Priest (3 page)

 

“Don't make the mistake of moving,” continued Rollison, without a pause, “because I've brought a gun with me. Which of you is Keller?” he repeated.

Neither of them moved. Probably they realised that if they doubled back into the house, they would do little good; more likely, they were afraid that he really had a gun. The light of his torch showed their hands as well as their faces.

The taller of the two was well-dressed and good-looking with short, dark hair and a heavy moustache. He was hatless, and wore an open-necked shirt. Obviously he was the man with the cultured voice. The other, shorter and thick-set, had a pugnacious but not an evil face – he was very different from the ex-prize-fighter and Spike Adams. His large eyes stood the light better than his companion, and he was the first to speak.

“who the hell are you?” His voice was rough but not Cockney.

“A friend of Kemp,” answered Rollison.

“If you know what's good for you, you'll tell Kemp to clear out,” growled the thick-set man. “He's not wanted here.”

“So I gathered when Spike Adams tried to beat him up,” said Rollison. “The Rev. Kemp is tougher than you realise.”

“I've warned him,” the man growled.

“Are you Keller?”

“Never mind who I am!”

“I don't think we understand each other,” said Rollison, mildly. “I'm helping Kemp, who is here to stay. Anyone who tries to get rid of him will run into much more trouble than he expects.”

“Anyone who helps Kemp will be lucky if he doesn't get his neck broken,” said the thick-set man.

Then, with one accord, they jumped at him.

Rollison was prepared for the rush. He switched off his torch, stepped to one side, and shot out his foot. The simple method worked. The thick-set man fell heavily, and the other tripped over him, gasping. Rollison drew away, not certain that the worst was over. The night's silence was broken by the sound of footsteps approaching from both directions.

He slipped into the yard of the house next door, and stood by the gate. The men on the ground picked themselves up, muttering, as a newcomer drew up.

“You okay?” he asked, hoarsely.

“Yes,” grunted the thick-set man. “If I come across that man again, I'll break his neck!” He uttered a stream of expletives as he dusted himself down, while Rollison backed further into the yard, and other men arrived.

None of the newcomers saw him. He kept close to the wall, trying to estimate the chances of climbing into the next yard if they should start to search for him. In the darkness, climbing would not be easy, but there were at least three newcomers, and odds of five to one were too heavy.

He crept further away, although he could hear their heavy breathing. There was a furtive air about them all, and they spoke in whispers.

“Who was he?” asked the man with the cultured voice.

“Some fool who fancies himself,” muttered the other. “I didn't think Kemp would ask any of his posh friends to come and help him. We'll have to put a stop to that.”

“I never see no one,” one of the newcomers said.

“I think I seed him go Jupe Street way,” volunteered another.

“He's scared stiff,” said the man with the gruff voice. “Let's get away.”

“Oughtn't we to look for him?” asked the man with the cultured voice.

“On a night like this? Have some sense!”

They moved off, two of the newcomers going ahead of the couple whom Rollison had met and the third following. Rollison waited until their footsteps had faded, then pushed a hand through his hair, looking very thoughtful as he walked to the back door of the Whitings' house, and tapped.

After a long pause, the door opened. A faint glow of light shone from another room. A thin man was outlined against it, but Rollison could not see his face.

“W – what do you want?” His voice was unsteady.

“If you're Mr. Whiting, I want to see you,” said Rollison. He pushed his way past and closed the door. He heard the hissing and popping of a lighted gas jet, and widened the doorway from which the light came. It shone on a weedy looking young man with thin hair, pale features, a harassed expression.

“Who – who is it, Erny?” asked a woman from another room, in a quavering voice. “Ar – are they back again?”

“I don't know,” muttered Erny Whiting. “I – No! They're not!” His voice rose and his troubled expression cleared. “Why, it's the—”

“Hush!” urged Rollison.

Whiting stood and gazed at him in silence, while a little anxious – and tired looking – woman came from the other room. She stopped abruptly when she saw Rollison, a gleam of recognition in her eyes.

“The others might be listening outside,” said Rollison, “I'll make sure. You let Mr. Kemp in – he's at the front.”

Mrs. Whiting turned to obey after only a moment's hesitation. Rollison went into the yard again, but found no one. He returned to the house and was ushered into the tiny parlour. Kemp was inside, stooping slightly because the ceiling was so low. In an armchair in one corner sat a very old woman, her hair drawn tightly back from her forehead. Her face was so thin that her skin was a mass of lines and wrinkles. She looked at Rollison with bright, beady eyes – both suspicious and wary.

“Who is he?” she squeaked.

“It – it's Mr. Rollison,” said Whiting, nervously. “I – I somehow didn't think you would come, Mr. Rollison.”

“We can go on from there,” smiled Rollison, leaning against a piano which took up most of one wall. “Why didn't you open the front door as soon as we knocked?”

Whiting licked his lips.

“They – the men told me not to.”

“Do you know who they were?”

“No, I've never seen them before,” answered Whiting. “They came about ten minutes before you – came the back way.” He licked his lips again. “They said we wasn't to help Mr. Kemp, or go to the church – if we did, they said, they'd—” He stopped, tongue-tied.

Rollison's eyes held a steely glint.

“The men who uttered menaces!” he murmured. “Whom did they threaten? Your children?”

“Yes!” Whiting gasped.

“We had to promise we wouldn't help Mr. Kemp!” Mrs. Whiting cried. “We don't want anything to happen to our children, Mr. Rollison!”

“Of course you don't, and nothing will,” Rollison assured her. “Why do they want to keep you away from church, Whiting? Do you know?”

“They – they only just told us that,” said Whiting, “but I think I know why. I was – I was with Joe Craik,” he added, with a nervous rush. “We was walking down to the hall together, and two men bumped into us. They went off, and Joe said they'd picked 'is pocket, but the only thing missing was his knife, he said, and he might have left that at his shop.”

“Go on,” murmured Rollison.

“Well, we hadn't got much further on when three more were waiting for us, near the hall,” Whiting said, sending a troubled glance at the old woman in the corner, who clearly disapproved of his frankness. “They started leading off about Mr. Kemp. It wasn't fair, the things they said – it just wasn't fair. I didn't want any trouble, but Joe answered back, and before we knew where we were, they was on us. We
had
to hit back,” Whiting added, defensively. “The police come, and one of them was on the pavement – I thought he'd knocked hisself out. Instead—”

“He warned you, didn't he?” squeaked the old woman in the corner. “He told you wot would 'appen if you squealed!”

“Be quiet, Ma,” pleaded Whiting.

“He told you—”

“Hold your tongue, mother!” Mrs. Whiting swung round on the older woman, surprisingly sharp-tongued. “We don't want any nonsense from you! It wasn't right to promise not to see Mr. Kemp. If it hadn't been for you, Erny wouldn't never have promised!”

“If they was
my
children—”

Rollison smiled at the old crone and moved towards her.

“Nothing's going to happen to the children, that's a promise.” He surveyed her with his head on one side, compelling her to return his gaze. After a long pause, her expression relaxed; but her words were grudging.

“If
you
ses so, I suppose that's all right.”

“It will be,” Rollison assured her, and turned to Whiting. “Have you told the police anything yet?”

“No,” said Whiting. “Joe told me to hop it, because we didn't want no more trouble. It wasn't until afterwards that I knew the chap on the ground was dead.”

“Don't you have nothing to do with the police!” protested the old woman.

“They'll have to hear the story,” Rollison said, “but it might be wise for you not to go into details, Whiting. Leave it to me, will you?”

“I really ought—” Whiting began, and then shrugged. “All right, Mr. Rollison. But what shall I say if they come?”

“Forget all about the first pair you met, and just tell the truth about the fight,” answered Rollison. “Kemp, will you stay here for half-an-hour?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Keep the doors and windows shut,” Rollison said. “As soon as I'm back, everything will be all right.”

He knew that Kemp was bursting to ask questions, but the curate showed admirable self-restraint. The old woman's suspicious gaze was on Rollison as he went out of the room. He made sure that no one was about in the lane, then walked towards the corner of the street and along Jupe Street to a telephone kiosk. Before entering, he waited, listening intently, but he heard nothing.

Soon, he was speaking to a man whose voice sounded heavy with sleep and who complained bitterly about being disturbed in the middle of the night. Immediately Rollison gave his name, the sleepiness seemed to vanish and the protests might never have been uttered.

“Why, Mr. Ar, wot a pleasure! I never expected to ‘ear from you ter-night, that's a fact. Can I do anyfink for you, Mr. Ar?”

“Yes, Bill,” said Rollison, “there's a family named Whiting, living at 49, Little Lane, off Jupe Street. They've three children. I want you to look after them.”

“They in trouble?”

“A Mr. Harry Keller doesn't like them,” said Rollison.

There was no immediate response.

He needed no more telling that Harry Keller meant something to Bill Ebbutt, who kept a pub in the Mile End Road, and also ran a boxing gymnasium where many of the more promising boxers were trained and managed. The war had whittled down the number of young hopes, but the older men still trained and some young men in reserved occupations went there regularly. Bill Ebbutt's gymnasium was an unofficial club with hundreds of members, most of them connected with the ring, all well-trained and packing a pretty punch. No man who belonged to Bill's ‘club' dabbled in the more vicious types of crime. The police would have liked to interview some, but even they admitted that members of the club were usually law-abiding.

Bill broke his silence at last.

“That's all right, Mr. Ar. I'll look arter the kids. It'll take a lot of men, mind yer – it might run you into a bit o' money, too, because they won't be able to do their ord'nary jobs while they're watching.”

“There's no limit to expenses,” Rollison said.

“That's good of you, Mr. Ar! P'raps you'll come rahnd and see me when yer can?”

“I will, before long,” promised Rollison. “How soon can you get men to Little Lane?”

“Take me the best par've a coupla hours,” declared Bill.

“Make it less if you can,” urged Rollison, and rang off.

Walking back to Little Lane, he mused on the conversation. What had been left unsaid, a great deal. Ebbutt had preferred not to speak about Keller on the telephone, which was curious, and had presented an urgent plea for Rollison to go to see him. Something about Keller obviously worried Bill.

An hour and a half later, a knock at the door of Whiting's house heralded the arrival of three men from the gymnasium. Rollison spoke to them, to make sure that they were genuine ‘club' members, gave instructions, and left the house with Kemp.

In the street, Kemp asked gruffly: “Who are those fellows, Rollison?”

“Good friends of mine, and they will be friends of yours if you show them what you can do with your fists,” said Rollison. By the time he had finished explaining, they were back at the church hall.

As they attempted to tidy up the small room which Kemp used, Rollison spoke thoughtfully. “I should have fixed a bodyguard for you, too.”

“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.