John Creasey - The Toff And The Curate
“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.”
“I won’t tell Kemp,” said Rollison, quietly. “What is it?” The bottles were clean and had no labels.
“Whisky,” said Craik. “You—you promise you won’t?”
“Yes,” said Rollison but made a mental reservation: “You’re all kinds of a damned fool, Craik. Not a soul would have believed you were innocent.” When Craik said nothing, Rollison went on sharply: “Why did you try to gas yourself?”
“I—I was so ashamed,” muttered Craik. “Me, a respectable man, a member o’ the church— you don’t know the disgrace, Mr Rollison. As soon as I come back, everyone started saying I was a sly one, why, two men come in and congratulated me on getting away with it!”
“Did you kill O’Hara?” asked Rollison, abruptly.
The man’s eyes widened in horror.
“Me!” He gasped. “No, no, Mr Rollison, I never killed him, I never killed a man in my life! He was a dirty tyke in some ways, always goin’ on at me, but I—”
“So you knew him,” murmured Rollison.
Apparently the shop was empty and the crowd had been moved on for there were only the sounds of chinking crockery downstairs. In the bedroom, the silence lengthened and Craik had gone very still.
At last, he said:
“I bought the whisky from him, Mr Rollison. That’s why he always had a rub at me. I didn’t know from one day to another when he was going to give me away, it was something awful. But—I never killed him! I didn’t even know I was going to see him that night!”
“Do the police know about your dealings with him?” asked Rollison.
Craik’s expression was answer enough.
“All right, I won’t tell them,” Rollison said but again he made a mental reservation he would not tell them unless it became important evidence. He listened but Kemp did not appear to be coming up. He unscrewed the cap of one bottle and smelt it. His face wrinkled.
“Great Scott! It’s poison!”
“It—it isn’t so good as it was,” muttered Craik. “But whisky’s hard to get, Mr Rollison. Don’t—don’t let the curate know, please!”
Kemp’s footsteps sounded on the stairs.
Rollison replaced the bottles and the stretch of wainscotting and was standing up, empty-handed, when Kemp arrived with a tea-tray. He had brought three cups.
The tea seemed to revive Craik. He remained maudlin and apologetic and very humble. He said that he realised now that the suicide attempt had been wrong but he hadn’t thought he could stand the disgrace. Kemp jollied him, handling the situation, as he knew it, admirably. Half an hour later, Craik seemed a new man and Kemp rose to go.
“You’ll be all right, now, Joe, and I’ve a meeting at seven-thirty. Don’t come out tonight. But don’t talk a lot of nonsense about not coming to church!” He rested a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Are you coming, Rolly?”
“I’ll stay for half an hour,” said Rollison.
When Kemp had gone, Craik looked at him steadily.
Bill Ebbutt had disliked the little man’s face and that was understandable. Craik had a hang-dog look, as if he were ashamed of himself. It was meekness but not true humility. He would be anathema to a bluff, confident character like Ebbutt. Now, however, he took on a strange, unexpected dignity.
“I appreciate your help very much, Mr Rollison. I won’t forget it, either.”
Rollison smiled.
“That’s all right, Joe! It’s none of my business but, if you must drink in secret, don’t drink poison like that.” He took out the bottles again and tucked them into his pockets where they bulged noticeably. “If you must have a drink, I’ll send you a bottle of the real stuff.”
“Please don’t,” said Craik, quickly. “This has been a lesson to me, I must try to—”
“If you try to reform yourself in five minutes, you’ll slip back further than you were before,” said Rollison. “How long have you been buying this stuff from O’Hara?”
“About four months, I suppose,” said Craik.
“Who did you get it from before that?”
“Another Kelly,” said Craik. “I mean, another Irishman!”
“Do you know where they got it?”
“No, I—I didn’t ask questions,” said Craik and went on in a thin voice: “I knew I was doing wrong but I couldn’t get it no other way. I used to buy it in the West End but when it got short I couldn’t.”
“It’s your problem,” Rollison said. “I’m not your judge. Do you know anyone else who buys it?”
“No,” said Craik, emphatically. “No one knows about it.”
“Then why should they learn?” asked Rollison.
He smiled and left the room.
Someone was putting a piece of board up at the broken window. It was the policeman who appeared to inquire about Craik’s condition and said that two or three things had been stolen when a dozen people had burst into the shop.
“I think it was them kids,” the policeman said. “They take some handling!”
“If they all get handled your way, they’ll be all right,” said Rollison. “I shouldn’t worry Craik just now. He’ll be better tomorrow.”
“What about the door?” asked the policeman.
“We’ll lock it and go out the back way,” said Rollison. “The back door’s got a self-locking Yale.”
When he parted company with the policeman he walked towards the Whitechapel Road, no longer smiling. The bottles were uncomfortable against his sides and once or twice he fingered them.
He did not think he had much further to look for the motive behind the murder; and he came to the conclusion that Jolly had not wasted the previous day. He was very anxious lo talk to Jolly.
