The Toff And The Curate

people called there to see them.

It was three in the morning before Chumley conceded that there was no need to stay longer.

Walking up the stairs to the flat, Rollison limped noticeably and, when they were inside, Jolly said:

“I think you’d better spend a day in your room tomorrow, sir. Your leg might get much worse.”

“Day in bed be—” began Rollison, then saw Jolly’s expression and grinned. “A day not in the office! Yes, that’s more like it! Are you forgetting that I’m a Whitehall Warrior deeply involved in the conduct of the war?”

“I would rate this affair somewhat higher than investigating the pilfering of Army depots,” murmured Jolly.

“Well, well!” exclaimed Rollison. “How did you manage to find that out? You’d located Gregson, I suppose, and managed to keep behind the taxi?”

“I was nearby, sir, and I heard someone mention the warehouse address, so I telephoned Chumley immediately and hurried there myself. I thought it unwise to try to prevent you from entering the taxi. Had I done so we might not have learned so much.”

“No,” admitted Rollison. “This is certainly your day. By George, I’m tired!” He stubbed out a cigarette. “It’s a pity but I must go to the office in the morning. There’s a Conference of Great Men.”

“At what time, sir?” asked Jolly.

“Eleven o’clock,” said Rollison.

It was ten o’clock next morning when Jolly called him. Rollison looked at his watch, stared at Jolly and was told mildly:

“I think you have good time for the Conference, sir.”

Although his leg was stiff, he felt rested and much more able to cope with the pretentious big brass who were to sit with him round a horseshoe-shaped table and discuss the matter of pilfering from Army depots. Although the pilfering reached alarming proportions and needed close investigation, Rollison disagreed with the attempt to solve it under central direction. As soon as the problem was solved in one place, it broke out in another. He did not agree that it was organised but that, being so spasmodic, it was purely local. Since his particular task was less concerned with stopping the trouble than with arriving at the totals of material and value lost, his heart was not in it and he made frequent attempts to get transferred to another Department; he had almost given up the hope of getting back to active service.

The Conference lingered on until late afternoon. By then, correspondence had accumulated and it was nearly half-past six before Rollison saw his ATS clerk seal the last letter.

“Is there anything else, sir?” she asked.

“Yes,” said Rollison. “Do you ever go to West End nightclubs?”

“Why, yes—occasionally, sir!”

“What’s the whisky like?”

“You shouldn’t touch it,” she said, confidentially, it’s enough to put you out on your feet!”

“How do they sell it?” asked Rollison. “I mean, could you go and buy me a bottle— tonight, say?”

“I suppose I could,” she said, looking at him suspiciously, for he spoke as if obtaining a bottle of whisky would be a great adventure. And then a false light dawned upon her. “If you really want some whisky, sir, a friend of mine is in the trade and I could get you some.”

“That’s sweet of you,” said Rollison, smiling. “But I haven’t gone mad. I want a bottle of the stuff I would buy at a nightclub but I don’t want to buy it myself.”

Then the true light dawned and she hugged herself as she went off, having sworn that she would not confide in a soul.

Rollison telephoned Jolly, to learn that he had not been able to find Gregson again but that the police were having one of their periodic comb-outs of the East End, that many people were already in hiding and the Fighting Parson was no longer the ruling topic.

“That’s better,” said Rollison. “He doesn’t want the limelight. I’ll go to see Cobbett the crane-driver, I think.”

“Very good, sir,” said Jolly.

Rollison had purposely kept from the crane-driver and not asked anyone else to watch him, believing it would be better if Cobbett lived in a fool’s paradise for a few hours. The time had come for the direct approach. But he was not able to go immediately for, as he left Whitehall, a stolid detective-sergeant in plainclothes approached and asked politely if he would mind stepping along to Scotland Yard.

About the time that Rollison was walking towards Scotland Yard with the amiable sergeant, Joe Craik was putting up the black-out shutters at his shop. After every one, he stopped and rubbed his hands, sniffed and smiled his quivering, rabbit smile. He was not furtive, yet gave the impression that he was afraid that people were pointing him out and talking about him.

When he had nearly finished, a youthful figure appeared in front of the shop. Craik turned and looked into the narrowed eyes of Cobbett the crane-driver.

“Now, what do you want?” demanded Craik, sharply.

Cobbett sniffed. Two or three people including a monstrously fat woman were walking by the shop and heard the opening remarks. The woman stayed within earshot.

“Have you heard about the accident?” demanded Cobbett.

“Yes, you fool! You might have—”

“Doan rub it in,” pleaded Cobbett and if he were acting he was doing so very well. “Wot ought I to do, Mr Craik? I never meant it.” Craik rubbed his hands and then said: “Well, my boy, if you’re really sorry, then I won’t