The Toff And The Curate

“He didn’t actually do anything,” said the curate. “But—he made the most astonishing offer. He offered to replace all the damaged goods at the hall and give five hundred pounds to St Guy’s Relief Fund, if—” Kemp grew almost incoherent.

“If you resigned?” asked Rollison.

“Yes!”

“What did you tell him?”

“I told him,” said Kemp, in a deep voice, “exactly where to get off!”

“That’s the spirit!” acclaimed Rollison, feeling considerably relieved, “I was afraid you might have fallen for it.”

“I might have done yesterday,” said Kemp, “but not now—I’ve heard a lot about you today. Last night, I only had your name and the little I’d heard about you from the Whitings but today—”

“Spare my blushes,” said Rollison. “How did you part with our brown-eyed briber?”

“Well, as “a matter of fact,” said Kemp, less boisterously, “I felt a bit uneasy. He’s a funny customer, isn’t he? He went out breathing threats and said he would give me forty-eight hours to change my mind. He also said you would have forty-eight but I’m not particularly worried about you.”

“So he’s given a time limit, has he?” asked Kollison. “Don’t let yourself be caught napping any time during the next forty-eight hours. Did he have anything else to say?”

“No.”

“Have you thought of anything that might be the cause of the trouble?”

“I’ve racked my brains but I can’t think of anything,” declared Kemp. “In fact, I don’t think there can be—”

“Of course there is,” interrupted Rollison. “How are the Whitings?”

“They’re all right. Those friends of yours have been to and from school with two of the youngsters. It was really funny this afternoon, one of the children is only eighteen months old and Mrs Whiting and the grandmother pushed him out to the shops with two hefties walking behind them. It caused quite a sensation.”

“Good!” said Rollison. “Publicity is always useful.”

He omitted to say that Kemp’s spirits seemed to be much brighter and asked:

“Have you seen my man?”

“That glum looking fellow, what’s his name?”

“Jolly.”

“What?” asked Kemp, incredulously, and then added hastily: “No, 1 haven’t seen him. Should he have come here?”

“No, it’s all right,” said Rollison.

He rang down, after promising to see Kemp later. He was worried but smiled from time to time when he thought of Keller’s offer. After setting his rough-necks on Kemp, attempted bribery was a climb-down—but it told him how seriously Keller intended to get rid of the curate.

Ten minutes later, the telephone rang again. This time, Rollison heard his man’s prim voice.

“Good evening, sir.”

“Well, well!” said Rollison and added sarcastically: “It’s nice of you to ring me.”

“I’m sorry that I had no opportunity of telephoning earlier,” said Jolly, stolidly, “but my inquiries took me out of London and I had to choose between continuing with them and advising you that I could not do so. I came to the conclusion—”

“Yes, you were right,” said Rollison, hastily. “Where are you now?”

“In Loughton, sir, near Epping Forest. I—” there was a short pause before Jolly went on in a sharper voice: “I am quite all right but I must go now. I will telephone again at the earliest opportunity. Goodbye, sir!”

Rollison heard the receiver bang down.

He sat contemplating the telephone for some lime. It was rare that Jolly allowed himself lo he hurried and he had taken his time at the beginning of the conversation. Only one likely explanation presented itself—that Jolly was keeping watch on someone who had reappeared sooner than he had expected. Reassured, Rollison did not waste time in more than passing speculation on what had taken Jolly to Loughton.

He looked through the evening papers for an account of the murder of the previous night. It was tucked away on an inside page and contained the statement that the murdered man’s name was O’Hara. Joseph Craik, of la, Jupe Street, had been charged with the murder and been remanded for eight days. Det Sergeant Bray, of Scotland Yard, had made the arrest. Inspector Chumley, of the AZ Division, was not so much as mentioned.

“I suppose I shall have to find out what they’re doing sooner or later,” Rollison mused.

Yet the more he pondered, the more determined he became to let the police make the first move. Craik would come to no harm while under remand—he might even be safer in Brixton than in his shop. Had Superintendent Grice been at the Yard, Rollison would have taken a different course; he could talk to Grice off the record and be sure that confidences would be respected, provided the law was not too openly flouted.

A ring at the front door interrupted him.

He opened it, warily, to see a vision in a flowered frock and a wide-brimmed hat with a radiant smile and a beauty spoiled only by a nose which some called retrousse. There were few callers he would have welcomed at that juncture, unless they were concerned in the affair of the harassed curate, but he felt a genuine pleasure at the sight of Isobel Crayne.