by John Creasey
“Oh, yes,” said Rollison, and Kemp joined him. “Don’t talk.” He said nothing more until they were halfway up the stairs. Then he looked round at Kemp with a wry smile. “Craik tried to gas himself, but I think I’ve satisfied the police that it was a heart attack. Can you smell gas?”
“Now you come to mention it, yes.” Kemp looked hard at Rollison but said nothing until they reached the bedroom.
Craik was looking over his shoulder, and when he saw Kemp, he tried to get up.
“Don’t get up, Joe,” said Kemp. “And don’t worry – Mr. Rollison has told everyone you had a heart attack.”
He closed the door.
Rollison disconnected the rubber tubing and coiled it round his fingers. The room was spotlessly clean, but the wainscotting had been broken in several places, and one stretch had recently been replaced by newer, lighter-brown wood. He looked at it thoughtfully, hearing Joe Craik’s voice as if from a long way off. The man talked in a monotonous, frightened undertone as Kemp pulled up another chair and sat beside him.
“I couldn’t bear it, Mr. Kemp. The disgrace, the horrible disgrace!” He shuddered. “I’ve never been so much as inside a police station before, and to be charged with – with murder.”
“But you were released,” Kemp said.
“You – you don’t know the people around here, sir. They’ll say I did it. I daren’t show my face in church again – oh, why didn’t he let me do away with myself?”
He turned and looked at Rollison.
“Why didn’t you? What did you want to interfere for?” He tried to get to his feet. His eyes were filled with tears, his face was twisted like a baby’s, and his lips were quivering. “A man’s got a right to do what he likes with his own life!”
Kemp said: “You’ll feel better soon, Joe. I’ll go and make you a cup of tea.”
“I – I won’t never be able to lift me head again,” moaned Craik. “I’d be better out of the way.”
“Do you want everyone to think you killed O’Hara?” demanded Rollison, as Kemp stood up.
“It wouldn’t make no difference to me, if I was dead!”
Rollison glanced at Kemp, who nodded, and went downstairs. Craik continued to stare into Rollison’s eyes, his own still watering and his body atremble. Rollison turned to the wall, went down on one knee, and was touching the wainscotting when Craik gasped: “What do you think you’re doing?”
Rollison pulled at the new piece of wainscotting; it came away easily. He groped inside the hole which lay revealed, and touched smooth and cold. He drew out two bottles, and stood up, holding one in each hand.
Craik rose unsteadily to his feet.
“Don’t – don’t tell the curate, Mr. Rollison!” His voice seemed strangled. “Don’t tell ‘im!” His voice grew almost hysterical, but could not be heard outside the room. “I – I never used to touch it, only since my wife died – I been so lonely. You don’t know what it is to be lonely; I don’t drink much, only a little drop now and again.”
“I won’t tell Kemp,” said Rollison, quietly. “What is it?” The bottles were clean, and had no labels.
“Whisky,” said Craik. “You – you promise you won’t?”
“Yes,” said Rollison, but made a mental reservation. “You’re all kinds of a damned fool, Craik. Not a soul would have believed you were innocent.” When Craik said nothing, Rollison went on sharply: “Why did you try to gas yourself?”
“I – I was so ashamed,” muttered Craik. “Me, a respectable man, a member o’ the church – you don’t know the disgrace, Mr. Rollison. As soon as I come back, everyone started saying I was a sly one, why, two men come in and congratulated me on getting away with it!”
“Did you kill O’Hara?” asked Rollison, abruptly.
The man’s eyes widened in horror.
“Me!” He gasped. “No, no, Mr. Rollison, I never killed him, I never killed a man in my life! He was a dirty tyke in some ways, always goin’ on at me, but I—”
“So you knew him,” murmured Rollison.
Apparently the shop was empty, and the crowd had been moved on, for there were only the sounds of chinking crockery downstairs. In the bedroom, the silence lengthened, and Craik had gone very still.
At last, he said: “I bought the whisky from him, Mr. Rollison. That’s why he always had a rub at me. I didn’t know from one day to another when he was going to give me away, it was something awful. But – I never killed him! I didn’t even know I was going to see him that night!”
“Do the police know about your dealings with him?” asked Rollison.
Craik’s expression was answer enough.
“All right, I won’t tell them,” Rollison said, but again he made a mental reservation he would not tell them unless it became important evidence. He listened, but Kemp did not appear to be coming up. He unscrewed the cap of one bottle, and smelt it. His face wrinkled.
“Great Scott! It’s poison!”
“It – it isn’t so good as it was,” muttered Craik. “But whisky’s hard to get, Mr. Rollison. Don’t – don’t let the curate know, please!”
Kemp’s footsteps sounded on the stairs.
Rollison replaced the bottles and the stretch of wainscotting, and was standing up, empty-handed, when Kemp arrived with a tea-tray. He had brought three cups.
The tea seemed to revive Craik. He remained maudlin and apologetic, and very humble. He said that he realised now that the suicide attempt had been wrong, but he hadn’t thought he could stand the disgrace. Kemp jollied him, handling the situation, as he knew it, admirably. Half-an-hour later, Craik seemed a new man, and Kemp rose to go.
“You’ll be all right, now, Joe, and I’ve a meeting at seven-thirty. Don’t come out tonight. But don’t talk a lot of nonsense about not coming to church!” He rested a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Are you coming, Rolly?”
“I’ll stay for half-an-hour,” said Rollison.
When Kemp had gone, Craik looked at him steadily.
Bill Ebbutt had disliked the little man’s face, and that was understandable. Craik had a hang-dog look, as if he were ashamed of himself. It was meekness but not true humility. He would be anathema to a bluff, confident character like Ebbutt. Now, however, he took on a strange, unexpected dignity.
“I appreciate your help very much, Mr. Rollison. I won’t forget it, either.”
Rollison smiled.
“That’s all right, Joe! It’s none of my business, but if you must drink in secret, don’t drink poison like that.” He took out the bottles again and tucked them into his pockets, where they bulged noticeably. “If you must have a drink, I’ll send you a bottle of the real stuff.”
“Please don’t,” said Craik, quickly. “This has been a lesson to me, I must try to—”
“If you try to reform yourself in five minutes, you’ll slip back further than you were before,” said Rollison. “How long have you been buying this stuff from O’Hara?”
“About four months, I suppose,” said Craik.
“Who did you get it from before that?”
“Another Kelly,” said Craik. “I mean, another Irishman!”
“Do you know where they got it?”
“No, I – I didn’t ask questions,” said Craik, and went on in a thin voice: “I knew I was doing wrong. But I couldn’t get it no other way. I used to buy it in the West End, but when it got short I couldn’t.”
“It’s your problem,” Rollison said. “I’m not your judge. Do you know anyone else who buys it?”
“No,” said Craik, emphatically. “No one knows about it.”
“Then why should they learn?” asked Rollison.
He smiled, and left the room.
Someone was putting a piece of board up at the broken window. It was the policeman, who app
eared to inquire about Craik’s condition, and said that two or three things had been stolen when a dozen people had burst into the shop.
“I think it was them kids,” the policeman said. “They take some handling!”
“If they all get handled your way, they’ll be all right,” said Rollison. “I shouldn’t worry Craik just now. He’ll be better tomorrow.”
“What about the door?” asked the policeman.
“We’ll lock it, and go out the back way,” said Rollison. “The back door’s got a self-locking Yale.”
When he parted company with the policeman he walked towards the Whitechapel Road, no longer smiling. The bottles were uncomfortable against his sides, and once or twice he fingered them.
He did not think he had much further to look for the motive behind the murder; and he came to the conclusion that Jolly had not wasted the previous day. He was very anxious to talk to Jolly.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“Very Poor Stuff,” Say Jolly
Jolly sipped at a glass of Joe Craik’s whisky gingerly, ran it about his mouth, and swallowed. Despite his caution, he choked. When he had recovered, he looked at Rollison with watery eyes.
“Very harsh liquor indeed, sir.”
“So I think,” said Rollison. “Craik bought it from O’Hara, and before O’Hara, from another Irishman from the colony at the docks. Bootleg liquor, Jolly!”
“You seem almost elated, sir.” Jolly was mildly disapproving. “I am,” said Rollison. “We’ve won half the battle, and your journey yesterday was a stroke of genius!”
Jolly looked puzzled.
“Can’t you see why?” asked Rollison.
“I’m afraid I can’t, sir.”
“You’ve been drinking too much firewater! You followed the pseudo-Keller’s cultured companion about yesterday, didn’t you? And as far as you know, he didn’t realise that he was being followed.”
“I should be very reluctant to think that he had observed me,” said Jolly, with dignity.
“I don’t think he did, otherwise he wouldn’t have gone round booking orders,” said Rollison.
“Booking orders for what?” echoed Jolly. “I must be very obtuse, or – oh, I see, sir!” His eyes grew brighter, and took on an eager look. “Would you care to elaborate the point, sir?”
Rollison chuckled.
“Making sure you don’t steal my thunder this time? Yes, I’ll elaborate. The man with the cultured voice went to the various pubs and booked orders for the hooch. His voice would go a long way, and he would be a plausible salesman. He made nine calls altogether, and if he sold a couple of dozen bottles each time, he didn’t do so badly. That would explain why he made it a pub crawl under difficulties. We should have suspected something like it last night.”
“We were both very tired,” murmured Jolly.
“Yes. Well, where do we go from here?” When Jolly did not answer, Rollison went on in a thoughtful voice: “We are justified in making some guesses. Kemp told me he is re-opening some of the mission halls which have been closed up for some time. After all, the mob would have to keep the stuff somewhere, wouldn’t it?”
“Naturally, sir.”
“Why not in or beneath one of the mission halls which haven’t been used for some time. A search is indicated! I wish I could get a few days off.”
“Perhaps it is time for you to fall sick, sir,” murmured Jolly. “We’ll see. Meanwhile, I don’t think we should move too fast. You’ve got one of the men who matters, the salesman of the outfit. You’d better pick up his trail again – you didn’t find out his name, did you?”
“No, sir,” said Jolly, apologetically.
“You might find out from Bill Ebbutt,” said Rollison. “You told me that your man finished his rounds in the West End, although he started from the East End. There would be a useful market for firewater in the mushroom clubs, even more so than in suburban pubs.”
“A much readier one, sir, yes.”
“Find him and keep after him, but be careful,” urged Rollison. “If they realise we’re after them in earnest, they might get really nasty. If they murdered O’Hara, who obviously talked too freely for their safety, they’ll do anything.”
“Do you think that’s why he was murdered?”
“Probably. He couldn’t resist baiting Craik, which was foolish. Craik made out that he started the fight because he was anxious to defend the fair name of Ronald Kemp, but actually he was keyed up to a pitch of desperation because he was afraid that O’Hara would taunt him, and let Whiting know what was behind it. It looks as if we’re getting along very nicely! Bill Ebbutt was right in his estimate of Joe Craik.”
“And that was, sir?”
“Bill doesn’t like hypocrites,” said Rollison.
“Craik certainly doesn’t impress as a very sincere individual,” murmured Jolly. “Perhaps you have already seen the other possibility, sir?”
“What possibility?”
Jolly looked diffident, and coughed slightly, before saying: “I have not had the advantage of seeing Craik in person, but he did discover that this whisky was available, didn’t he? He usually bought his supplies in the West End, but switched to the East End. The question I ask myself is, how did he know about it? A chance meeting with O’Hara, or any one of the salesmen, would hardly have brought to light the fact that they were selling illicit liquor. Craik’s reputation being what it was, he was not a likely informer. Don’t you agree, sir?” added Jolly, anxiously; for the Toff was looking at him fixedly.
“I do indeed,” murmured Rollison. “I’d missed that one. Craik might know where the stuff is being stored. He might even be conniving at it.”
“It occurred to me as being just possible, sir,” said Jolly, modestly.
“It strikes me as being probable,” declared Rollison. “Nice fellow, Joe Craik – if we’re right.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s getting on for nine. I’ll go over and find these halls, and any other places which belong to the church and might be used for warehousing. You can try to find out the name of our cultured gentleman. Oh – and see that Craik gets a bottle of real Scotch.”
“Very good, sir.”
“There’s one other thing,” went on Rollison, rubbing his cheek thoughtfully. “The order of the day is – be careful.”
“I will, sir.”
“When you look blank like that, you’re usually wondering what I’m talking about,” said Rollison. “I’m not drivelling. Care is essential. Even if we’re right, we haven’t yet discovered where the stuff comes from. The Irish angle might be a blind – these gentry are specialists in diversions, aren’t they? But Jolly, if we’re right – how big is it?”
After a pause, Jolly said warmly: “I didn’t see as far as you, sir. We might close up the traffic in Whitechapel, or even further around, but still leave a very wide field for its disposal.”
“Yes,” said Rollison, “and we might as well make a clean sweep of it.” He lit a cigarette. “As it might be a big-money game, take even fewer chances than you would have done five minutes ago.”
“Is there any particular thing you want me to find out about my quarry?”
“Name, address – oh, yes,” said Rollison, “and what connections he has in the West End. Big money isn’t often found in the East End.”
He paused, and Jolly waited, hopefully.
“There have been whisky rackets before, haven’t there?” murmured Rollison. “Two or three of them dummy companies selling good stuff at high prices. Could we be on the fringe of something similar, but with hooch as its stock-in-trade?”
“It is at least a possibility, sir,” said Jolly. “I have just remembered something which the man who called himself Keller said when he called last night.”
“What particular thing?” asked Rollison.
Rollison began to smile.
“Jolly, we’ll have to go into formal partnership! I missed that.”
“I am quite satisfied with the present arrangement, sir, thank you,” said Jolly, primly. “I cannot see that it is of any great importance, although it might—”
“Oh, come!” exclaimed Rollison. “It might be the most important thing yet.”
“I don’t quite see—” began Jolly.
“But you must see,” declared Rollison, “Keller – we’ll call him Keller – was anxious that we shouldn’t spend too much time on his beat. He doesn’t know just what we have discovered. He might even have been referring, obliquely, to the hooch. He might have been saying, in effect: ‘Why spoil our little market, when there’s a big one on your own doorstep?’ Remember,” added Rollison, “there is the real Keller, of the established reputation. Two factions, as we know. What a triumph for our Keller if he succeeded in making us concentrate on the other man.”
“Very subtle indeed, sir,” said Jolly. “I really don’t know how you do it! What time do you expect to be back?”
“I hope, by midnight,” said Rollison.
He let Jolly go ahead, reassuring himself that neither he nor his man was being followed. He came to the conclusion that ‘Keller’ had been sincere when he had offered a forty-eight hours armistice, and he went by tube to Whitechapel. When he reached the Jupe Street hall, he found it closed. He went to St. Guy’s, which was half-a-mile away, but found it empty as well – it was used as a school during the day. He was about to go back to Jupe Street when a side door of the church opened, and Craik appeared.
“Why, hallo, sir!” he said, with enforced joviality. “I didn’t expect to see you again this evening!”
“One never knows one’s luck, does one?” said the Toff, ironically. “Have you seen Mr. Kemp?”
“He was here a short while ago, but went out. I understand that you might find him near East Wharf. We have a small hut near there, sir.”
