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

violence which altered the whole course of the struggle.
    Realising that their chance had gone, the assailants escaped as and when they could, running the gauntlet towards the door. A massive veteran stood by it, and clouted each man as he dodged out.
    Rollison put down his clubs, smoothed his hair, and went over to Bill Ebbutt, who was now standing in the middle of the room and directing operations like a guerrilla leader. He said nothing until only three of the attacking party remained, all unconscious.
    â€œI could do with a pint, I could,” Ebbutt declared, looking at Rollison with one eye closed up and already swelling to huge proportions. “You come just at the right time, Mr. Ar. You know ‘ow to work it, doncha.”
    â€œJust luck,” said Rollison. “I’d no idea what was happening.”
    â€œI noo it was bound to come,” said Ebbutt, philosophically. He was a large man, running to fat but still very powerful. His features were rugged and battered, for he had spent thirty years in the ring, but his ears were curiously small and well-shaped; it was his dictum that a boxer who allowed himself to get cauliflower ears should take up stone-breaking. “Ho, yes, I noo,” he went on, trying to grin although his mouth was nearly as swollen as his eyes, and he uttered the words with great difficulty. “Charlie!”
    â€œCallin’ me?” demanded a little man with enormously wide shoulders.
    â€œWho’d yer think I’m callin’?” growled Ebbutt. “Fetch some beer and glasses, mate, an’ be quick about it. An’ fetch me a coupla pound o’ beefsteak!” he added. “Strewth, Mr. Ar, wartime’s a bad time to get a black eye, ain’t it? I don’t know wot my missus will say when she sees me.” He made a brave attempt to wink. “I’d better tell ‘er it was your fault, that’ll keep ‘er quiet!”
    He roared again. The beer arrived, and the club members, now twenty strong and increasing every minute, for an S.O.S. had been sent out when the melee had started, began to drink eagerly. Of the three men who had been knocked out, two had recovered and been literally kicked out of the room; the other was still on the floor conscious, but detained for interrogation. He looked terrified, and proved to be genuinely dumb.
    The fight had started about a quarter of an hour before Rollison had arrived, when only half-a-dozen ‘club’ members had been present. The purpose, Ebbutt declared with assurance, had been to beat him up; he didn’t think Rollison would need telling why.
    â€œNo,” agreed Rollison. “Keller wants to prise you off the Whitings.”
    It had been a likely enough move, although he had not expected one to materialise so quickly. The place had been admirably chosen. A beating-up in the street, by daylight, was a risky business, for it might bring the police, while after dark Ebbutt always had plenty of men with him. Also, Ebbutt told Rollison, as soon as he had known what the job was, he had locked his door and made sure no one could get in at his window. “I know somefink about Keller,” he remarked, darkly.
    â€œI hadn’t heard of him until a day or two ago,” said Rollison.
    â€œNo more you didn’t want to,” declared Ebbutt. ‘”E’s a swine, Mr. Ar, I don’t mind sayin’ so – he’s a proper swine.”
    â€œHow long has he been about?” asked Rollison.
    â€œThree or four munce,” said Ebbutt. “No, more’n that. Six munce.”
    â€œWhat’s he up to?”
    â€œNo use arstin’ me,” said Ebbutt. “I minds me own business, you know that. ‘E’s a proper swine, Keller is. It’s my business all right now,” he went on, and made a comical effort to lick his lips. “I don’t half sting,” he added, and managed to get beer past his lips.