The Toff And The Curate

“Sorry,” said Rollison, perfunctorily. “Do you know this weapon, Kemp?”

“No,” said Kemp again.

“It’s a common or garden cosh,” Rollison told him, “and it’s as popular here as the knuckle-duster, razor and flick-knife but less dangerous. Feel it.” Kemp fingered the thicker end. “It’s filled with lead shot,” went on Rollison, “and is made like that so that it will knock a man out but leave no permanent injury, probably not even a bruise. So they didn’t intend to kill which should console you.” He smiled crookedly at Kemp but, before the curate could reply, he swung round on the conscious man and spoke in a rough voice. “Now! It’s time you talked. Who sent you after Mr Kemp?”

CHAPTER THREE

Talk Of Harry Keller

The man’s mouth dropped open and he tried to back further against the wall but only succeeded in knocking the back of his head against it. The Toff moved the cosh again, not violently, but close to his frightened eyes. The man was undersized, round-faced with a broken nose and an ugly scar over his right eye. From his cauliflower ears the Toff classed him as an ex-prize fighter. He was a man of perhaps forty and, in spite of his fear, there was a cunning glint in his eyes.

He drew in a hiss of breath.

“I—I just ‘appened to be—”

“You just happened to meet a friend and you were walking along with him when all of a sudden he jumped out at someone in front of him,” said Rollison, sarcastically. “I know all about that one, I’ve heard it before. I’d followed you far enough to know that you were both involved, so don’t lie. Who told you to . . .”

“I dunno!” squealed the man.

“You dunno, don’t you,” said Rollison. “Kemp, I’m going to give you a lesson in how to make a stubborn man talk. You might find it useful but don’t say who taught you!” He raised the cosh as if he meant business and Kemp actually put out a hand to restrain him.

“I’ll tell you!” gasped the little man, rearing up against the wall, “ ’Arry Keller gimme a quid to come along wiv Spike!”

Rollison glanced at the man on the floor.

“And is he Spike?”

“Spike Adams, that’s his name, mister.”

“And what’s your name?” demanded Rollison.

“I—I don’t ‘ave to tell yer my name, do I?” asked the little man, in a wheedling tone, “I’ve told yer the names of the others. Gimme a break. I never did nothing, I only drifted along with Spike, that’s all.”

“When you’ve given me your name and waited for half an hour, you can go,” said Rollison.

“You mean that?” The man’s little eyes lit up.

“Yes,” said Rollison—and released a flood of talk.

“My name’s “Arris, mister, Tom “Arris. I live dahn in River Row, everyone knows Tom “Arris—me name’s an ‘ouseold word. Never beaten, I wasn’t. Had two hundred and two fights an’ never beaten, that’s me. I’m dahn on me luck, mister,” went on Harris in maudlin tones. “I wouldn’t have done such a thing as I done tonight if I ‘adn’t been. A quid means a lot to me an’ I never knew what Spike was going to do. That’s Gawd’s truth.”

“I don’t think!” said Rollison. “Go and sit on the stage and don’t move until I tell you to.”

“Me wife’ll be expecting me,” declared Harris, pleadingly, “I promised I wouldn’t be no later than one o’clock. You wouldn’t let a woman be left alone at night these days, would you?”

“Some women, gladly,” said Rollison. “Get on the stage.”

Harris shrugged his shoulders and slouched off.

“Keep an eye on him,” Rollison said, sotto voce, “he might start throwing the chairs about.”

He spoke loudly enough for the man on the floor to hear, if he were conscious, and stepped towards the other wall. The man bounded to his feet and darted for the door. Rollison picked up a chair and threw it so that the man went sprawling.

“Now, Spike,” said Rollison, chidingly. “Foxing won’t help you. He strolled over to the man, who made no further attempt to get up, and smiled at him. “So Harry Keller sent you, did he?”

Adams glared up.

“So you’re not a talker, like Harris?” said Rollison, “I suppose I couldn’t expect to find two on the same night.” He glanced at Kemp who was trying to watch him and keep an eye on Harris at the same time. “I don’t think we need worry about this customer, do you? The police will look after him, he’ll probably get twelve months for using the cosh.”

Adams broke across the words.

“If you run me in, I’ll see you get beaten up. Got me?”

“It’s like that, is it?” asked Rollison, thrusting a hand into his pocket and swinging the cosh with the other. “I don’t think you’ve recognised me, Spike.”

“I don’t give a damn who you are!”

“You should, you know,” said Rollison. “For now I come to think of it, I’ve seen and heard a lot about you. Try using your memory.” When Adams kept silent, he went on in an amiable tone: “Come! You should be able to do