The Toff and the Deadly Priest by John Creasey Read Free Book Online

Hamilton? Send a couple of your liveliest men round to the flat, will you? I’m locked in my own drawing room, with two homicidal maniacs in the hall, threatening to . . . yes, of course I’m serious!”
    The startled sergeant promised that he would send men immediately, and Rollison replaced the receiver.
    The flat was on the first floor and it would be possible to climb out of the window and surprise Keller from the rear. But he had no weapon, and had a healthy respect for the other’s gun. Even if he only tried to follow them, it was so dark that they would probably shake him off. It would be best to stay where he was, confident that the flat would be clear of the intruders by the time the police arrived.
    He and Jolly conversed in whispers, but that soon palled. They heard nothing for five minutes, then a car drew up outside and heavy footsteps came thumping on the stairs. Not until the police were outside the flat did Rollison unlock the drawing room door, and let them in.
    Sergeant Hamilton, tall, fair and brisk, hoped Rollison had not been pulling his leg.
    â€œI have not!” Rollison assured him, fervently, “I expected the men to try to break the door down, but they heard me telephoning you and decided not to wait.”
    â€œWho were they?” demanded Hamilton.
    â€œI haven’t the faintest idea,” said Rollison.
    Afterwards, when the police had gone and as dawn was breaking, he told Jolly that he did not propose to mention Keller’s name to the police until he knew more about the man. For one thing, Keller’s certainty that he was in no danger from the police, was a remarkable thing. For another, he wanted to feel the pulse of the East End before he stirred up police action. He had been perfectly serious when he had told Kemp that it would be better to fight on his own for the time being – the masses of the district would rally round him, when it was seen that he was trying to fight single-handed – or even with help from the Toff.
    At a quarter-past five, Rollison went to bed.
    At a quarter to eight, Jolly called him, for Rollison, an acting Colonel, was due at his office in Whitehall by nine-thirty. He had the week before him, for it was only Tuesday, and there was little chance of getting leave; the only way of doing that, he complained to Jolly, was to go sick.
    â€œWon’t you await events before taking that step?” asked Jolly.
    â€œYou mean won’t I give you a free hand?” said Rollison, smiling unamusedly. “I suppose I’ll have to. See Kemp and the Whitings, and keep me in touch with what happens. I’ll lunch at the club, so ring me there.”
    â€œVery good, sir,” said Jolly.
    And the Toff, sadly, set out for Whitehall.
    Twice in the course of the morning, a colleague said with some exasperation that he was not giving his mind to the subject under discussion, and twice he apologised and tried to pull himself together. In truth, he was apprehensive lest the Whitings had been made to suffer for their boldness. The one reassuring factor was that Bill Ebbutt had sounded as if he knew what kind of proposition he was up against with Keller, and would take elaborate precautions. It was absurd that Keller should be able to inspire such apprehension, and equally absurd that he should be so self-assured.
    â€œBut he isn’t!” exclaimed Rollison, aloud.
    â€œNow look here, Rolly,” said plump, bespectacled Colonel Bimbleton, “you know perfectly well that he was.”
    â€œEh?” asked Rollison.
    â€œOh, you’re impossible!” declared Bimbleton, then peered at him with sudden interest. “I say, Rolly, is something up?”
    â€œUp is the word,” said Rollison. “I’m sorry, Bimble, but I can’t concentrate on this report. Would you care to have a shot at it yourself?”
    Bimbleton regarded him curiously.
    â€œWell, I don’t mind trying,” he conceded,