The Toff and the Deadly Priest by John Creasey Page B

she said: “S’funny thing, ‘e said ‘e’d be open until seven o’clock. It’s funny. Joe don’t orfen let yer down.”
    She tapped again, but got no response. Rollison’s smile faded and he stood back, the better to survey the shop, and to see the closed first floor windows above the weather-beaten facia board across which was written ‘Joe Craik, Groceries, Provisions’. The shop windows were freshly dressed with tins of goods on points, all carefully docketed, and it was impossible to see inside the shop.
    â€œI don’t know that I like this,” said Rollison. “Does he live on his own?”
    â€œYerse.”
    â€œWhat about his wife?”
    â€˜â€E’d be a long way from ‘ere if ‘e lived wiv ‘er,” declared the woman with a wide grin. “She’s bin dead these ten years, mister! ‘ere! Wotcher doing?”
    He could smell gas coming from above his head; it was too strong for him to be mistaken.
    Rollison hunched a shoulder and thrust it against the glass panel of the shop door, which was pasted over with advertising bills. After three attempts, the glass broke. Rollison ignored the curious glances of passers-by, who promptly became spectators, as he removed a large piece of glass, and put his hand inside and opened the door.
    As he stepped inside, a uniformed constable came up.
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CHAPTER TEN
Joe Craik In Person
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    No one was in the shop.
    There was a smell of bacon and fat, although everything looked scrupulously clean, and the floor was covered with sawdust. Goods were piled high on the shelves, neatly ticketed. Rollison glanced round and then looked behind the counters.
    The constable came in.
    â€œWhat—” he began, and then recognised Rollison. “I say, sir!” he exclaimed.
    Rollison smiled at him fleetingly.
    â€œI’m looking for Craik,” he said, opening a door which led to an over-furnished, drably decorated parlour. This was empty, too. He went through into the kitchen, but no one was there.
    The stairs led from a tiny passage between the shop and the parlour. Rollison mounted the stairs quickly but hesitated when he reached the landing. There were three doors, all closed.
    From one there came the strong smell of gas.
    Rollison looked into the empty rooms, before finding that the third door was locked. It was a thin, freshly painted one, with a brass handle. Rollison put his shoulder against it, and heaved; it was easy to break open. As he staggered forward, the smell of gas was very strong.
    â€œYou all right up there, sir?” called the constable.
    â€œYes!” gasped Rollison, stifling a cough. He hurried across the room, holding his breath, and caught a glimpse of the man on the bed; frightened eyes stared at him. He flung up the one, large window and drew in a deep breath of fresh air.
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    A crowd had gathered outside and some were standing on the opposite side of the road, gazing at the place.
    He turned round; the man on the bed held a length of rubbing tubing in his hand and from it there came the faint hiss of escaping gas. Rollison saw that the other end of the tube was connected with the gas bracket. He reached up and turned it off. The little, frightened eyes watched every movement; Joe Craik reminded him of nothing more than a scared rabbit.
    Rollison reached his side, making him cringe back, and lifted him from the bed, saying in a low voice: “Keep quiet, if you want to stop a scandal.”
    Craik muttered something that was inaudible.
    Rollison kicked a chair into position and sat the man on it in front of the window – he could not be seen from outside.
    â€œStay there,” exhorted Rollison.
    He went into the other bedroom and opened the windows, then went downstairs. The policeman had his hands full, for two urchins were standing and grinning at him, one of them holding a tin of beans in grubby hands. Three people had entered the shop