by John Creasey
The younger woman looked on edge, but made no further attempt to send her mother about her business.
“I’ve heard a rumour about Mr. Kemp—” Rollison began.
“There you are,” put in the old crone. “I knew it wasn’t a lie, just because you said it was. I don’t care what you say, I’m going to tell Mrs. Parsons, and—”
“If you say a word to her or any other mealy mouthed old gossip, out of this house you go!” cried Mrs. Whiting, and her tone so startled her mother that the old woman sat down abruptly, gaping. “It’s wicked, it is really, Mr. Rollison,” went on Mrs. Whiting, nearly in tears. “Someone has been saying that Mr. Kemp is under arrest.”
“It isn’t true,” Rollison assured her.
The little woman’s face became positively radiant.
“Oh, I am glad! You see?” She shot a triumphant glance at her mother.
“Where did you hear it, Mrs. Whiting?” Rollison asked. “Joe Craik told me – and he ought to know,” declared the old crone.
“Did it come from him personally?” asked Rollison.
“From his own lips. I was the only one in the shop, and he made me promise not to breathe a word,” the old woman said. “But he didn’t mean I wasn’t to tell my best friends!”
Rollison said, slowly: “It’s much better that no one should know – you were quite right, Mrs. Whiting. You’re sure no one has been told?”
The younger woman said feelingly: “I haven’t let Mother go out since she told me. I didn’t mean to let a scandal like that get around, because I knew the minute she told Mrs. Parsons.”
“You leave your mother’s friends alone,” complained the older woman.
“Mrs. Parsons and I are old friends,” said Rollison.
“P’raps she is, and p’raps she ain’t!” snorted the old woman, and flounced out.
“You’re so good with the old people, sir,” Mrs. Whiting said. “I do wish she wouldn’t talk so much. Sometimes I think she’s as bad as Mrs. Parsons. Why, only this afternoon.”
For the first time, Rollison heard of the conversation between Craik and Cobbett the crane driver, and the fact that Cobbett had appeared sincerely anxious to make amends. He wondered whether Grice or Chumley had heard the story.
After leaving Mrs. Whiting, he telephoned four people, to find out whether any of them knew of the rumour about Kemp’s arrest. They did not.
He stepped out of the kiosk, walked past Craik’s shop, and returned to Gresham Terrace by bus and tram, hoping that his movements were watched. He was on the look-out for further assaults, but none came. It looked as if Straker had shot his bolt.
Smiling to himself, he reached the flat and rang the bell.
He was rubbing his hands, not unlike Joe Craik, when Jolly admitted him.
“Now, we won’t be long!” said Rollison.
But his mood changed, for Jolly looked troubled, and Grice appeared from behind him, looking very grim. Then Isobel appeared from the drawing room. She looked angry, hair dishevelled and face shiny. “When are you going to make the police see sense?” she demanded.
“What’s wrong now?” asked Rollison.
“Everything’s wrong,” exclaimed Isobel.
“What is it?” Rollison asked Grice. “And let’s sit down and have a drink. Jolly!”
They relaxed a little as they sat down.
“At least we’ve got Straker,” reported Grice. “The first crack came from the man Harris, but we also caught the taxi driver, and the flashy man who followed you. He had received his orders from Straker personally.”
Rollison began to smile.
“So, they were panicking, I hoped they were when the taxi turned into the street. One grain of truth from Anstruther completely upset the applecart. Have you held Gregson and the others?”
“No,” said Grice. “I—”
“Tell him!” Isobel almost shouted.
“Now what is all this?” demanded Rollison, as Jolly came forward with a laden tray.
Grice said: “We’ve questioned every man we’ve caught. Gregson isn’t among them, nor is Keller, nor is the unknown man in Whitechapel – if one exists. They all say the same thing – that Kemp is involved down there.”
“Do they, b’God,” said Rollison.
“They must be lying!” exclaimed Isobel.
“The fact remains that we have a detailed story about practically everything,” said Grice. “We know how the whisky was stored, how it was distributed, and where it was made. Straker is in it up to the hilt, and so are the others whom we’ve caught – and all of them implicate Kemp. What is more, Straker says that Cobbett discovered that Kemp was involved, and went to blackmail him.”
“Oh,” said Rollison, again. “Cunning on the part of Cobbett – a public conversation with Craik, so as to put himself in a good light, then a little gentle blackmail. There’s one obvious reason for all accusing fingers pointing at Kemp,” he went on. “They’re still covering someone else. There can’t be any other explanation. What are you going to do?”
“What can I do but act on the evidence?” asked Grice.
“Rolly, I just don’t believe that Ronald’s concerned in this,” said Isobel, passionately. “Can’t you do anything?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The Malice Of Man
“I’m certainly going to do something,” said Rollison, after a long pause. “Does Kemp know the latest facts?”
“Not yet.”
“When he’s told, keep him away from Straker! The malice of men is an ugly thing. Straker is going down, and wants to pull everyone else with him, especially Kemp, who blundered in with his crusade. When you come to think of it, that’s not been a failure.”
“Why are you standing there talking?” demanded Isobel, sharply. “How can you disprove what Straker says?”
“By finding the truth,” said Rollison. “I think we can. Don’t look so down in the mouth, my love!” He turned to Grice. “Bill, can you have a strong cordon of police flung round the Jupe Street area, including East Wharf? Not one man here and there, but a really large party, so that if there’s a concerted rush to break away your chaps can stop it. By now, whoever is working down there will have heard of the trouble and won’t want to stay for long. I mean Gregson and might be Keller, of course.”
“If you can give me—”
“More tangible evidence? I can’t, but it stands to reason that both men will be in that neighbourhood. All the trouble has been centred round there. You’ve had the whole district combed out; it isn’t asking much, surely, to do this.”
“Can’t you be more explicit?” asked Grice.
“No,” said Rollison. “Chumley warned them of the danger, so they’re in hiding. Now they’re shouting ‘Kemp’, to sidetrack us. If we tell them where we are concentrating the next attack, they’ll get out of the area. So neither you nor anyone else should know where the next attack will be concentrated – yet.”
“Do you mean you know?” asked Grice.
“I think so. And so should you – you’ve had access to the evidence! And of course I might be wrong, and I’d hate to spoil my reputation! Am I asking so much?” he added, appealingly.” You went for Straker, and lo! You were rewarded.”
“All right,” said Grice, and stepped to the telephone.
“Rolly—” began Isobel.
“Hush!” said Rollison. “It’s time for action. Talking’s over.”
“Do you really think there’s a chance?”
“We shall have your Ronald out of this spot before very long, and Straker Brothers in a very much deeper one. Perhaps even the proprietors of East Wharf, too. I suppose it’s no use asking you to go and see your friends at Caterham?” he added, hopefully. “You owe them a visit and an apology.”
&n
bsp; “I’m coming with you,” said Isobel, firmly.
“I was afraid you were. But for Kemp’s sake, do as I ask. He won’t want you a corpse, and there is deep malice, not only in Straker but in the others. Kemp has completely upset their plans. He started them on the downward path and, by George, he’s seeing them drop into the River Styx itself! They hate him, as they’ve already proved, but why should they have a chance to wreak vengeance on you? Take out your mobile canteen. Go down there to the East Wharf area, where you’ll get a grandstand view.”
Isobel still hesitated.
“Go with Miss Crayne, Jolly,” ordered Rollison, and smiled approvingly when his man said: “Of course, sir,” without even looking disappointed.
Isobel and Jolly went off. Rollison looked at his watch: it was just after five o’clock.
Grice returned from the telephone.
“That’s done,” he said. “I hope you know what you’re talking about.”
“So do I,” said Rollison, as they started downstairs. “I don’t think there’s much doubt, Bill. The original Keller, the good old original director of operations on the Whitechapel front – that’s the man we’re after. The imaginary Keller, doer of good deeds.”
“What do you mean?” demanded Grice.
“Obviously, sooner or later you were going to wonder whether Kemp was taking the law into his own hands,” went on Rollison. “That’s why they had him lured down to Whitechapel. It wasn’t my fault only that you suspected Kemp – they’ve been leading up to it for a long time. And their case against him will probably be pretty strong.”
“It is,” said Grice. “Straker has crossed the t’s and dotted the i’s.”
“Yet he didn’t convince you?”
Grice did not answer until he was at the wheel of his car and driving away from the kerb. Then he said: “I’m open to conviction. You’ve done pretty well in a few days – and we’d been after Straker for weeks. If you’re right about one thing, why not another?”
“Oh, what a generous heart!” beamed Rollison. “We really should work together more. By the way, do you know who the real Keller is? The man who killed O’Hara? The man who sent Cobbett to apologise to Kemp and afterwards murdered him?”
“No. Do you?”
“Yes. But you haven’t heard all the evidence. The rumour that Kemp was under arrest got round. I denied it, but didn’t explain that he had been detained for questioning. It could only have reached Whitechapel vide police – who can be ruled out – or the crooks themselves. But the rumour wasn’t widespread. Few people knew of it when Joe Craik told me. I went along to see the Whitings, the old hag of which family was sizzling with impatience to go round and spread the news, but her daughter had stopped her. Craik told me that he had heard it from one of his customers, but the only one who appears to have known of it was the Whitings’ grandmere, who said that Craik told her. She has a garrulous friend, a Mrs. Parson, who has a reputation for spreading news quicker than anyone else. Had Mrs. Parsons heard about it, then it would have got everywhere. The gallant Mrs. Whiting prevented that, and so gave me the answer.”
“Craik?—” exclaimed Grice.
“Craik himself, yes. He made one mistake – he relied on the Whitings’ mother to tell Mrs. Parsons. He thought it safe to say he had heard from the neighbours, but thanks to Mrs. Whiting, no one else knew.”
Grice said, slowly: “Apart from the fact that we first arrested him and let him go, what real grounds have you for saying this, Rolly? He did try to kill himself, didn’t he?”
“I thought so, and I said so. Very clever fellow, Craik. But although I actually saw him in bed, holding the gas tube, there was one piece of evidence that I missed. Behind the bed was a hole in the wainscotting. When I found that I thought it was used to store his poison, assuming he was a secret drinker. Actually, it would have been easy for him to have staged a suicide attempt while holding the end of the tube to the wainscotting, so that the gas went out into the street. There was a smell of gas above the shop, but none inside it, the point I missed at the time. Craik told one or more of his customers he would be open, then closed up. He knew that anything unusual would quickly reach Kemp’s ears, and wanted to be ‘seen’ in the middle of a suicide attempt. Pretty smart, wasn’t it?”
“If you’re right, he’s capable of anything.”
“Of all that’s happened, yes. Of course, O’Hara knew that he was a party to the crime, that’s why Craik killed O’Hara, with his own knife. Then he had to make it look as if he were being framed. First, the threats against the Whitings, to stop Whiting from talking. Then, a message through Harris, who admitted having stolen the knife – you can bet he was handsomely paid for that ‘confession’! Next, information leaked to Chumley through the unknown Keller, a man who doesn’t exist but who has been built up to create the right impression.”
‘”What about the man who calls himself Keller?” demanded Grice.
The rest of the journey to Whitechapel passed in silence.
At the far end of Jupe Street stood the W.V.S. mobile canteen, with a view of the street and of the wharf. The wharf appeared very busy, and Grice drove past Craik’s shop and to the wharf, where a tight-lipped Chumley appeared.
“Is everything set?” asked Grice.
“Yes, sir,” said Chumley, sending a resentful look at Rollison. “When do you want the men to close in?”
“We won’t necessarily want them to close in,” said Rollison. “We want to make sure that no one can get out. Isn’t that right, Superintendent?”
“Yes,” said Grice.
“Perhaps you wouldn’t mind telling me who I ought to be looking for,” said Chumley, sarcastically.
“Gregson and Keller, of whom you have descriptions,” said Grice. “And the man who let himself be talked of as Keller.”
“I think that was Kemp,” declared Chumley.
“That’s what you were intended to think,” said Grice. “Mr. Rollison and I are going to Craik’s shop. Have two or three of your men keeping an eye open there.”
“Craik!” gasped Chumley.
“The man Sergeant Bray arrested, and whom you later released,” murmured Rollison.
Grice turned the car and drove to Craik’s shop. He and Rollison hurried into the shop, catching Craik by surprise as he stood behind the counter with a thin knife in his hand. It was poised over some tinned pork, for two waiting customers.
“Why, good afternoon!” said Craik, round-eyed. “I hope—”
“It’s no use, Keller,” said Rollison. “We know who you are.” He was almost taken by surprise by the other’s speed. Craik swung his right arm, slicing the air with the knife. Rollison backed swiftly, picked up a tin from the counter and flung it. The customers screamed. The tin caught Craik on the side of the head and made him stagger against the shelves. Rollison darted through the gap in the counter and to the stairs. By the time two of Chumley’s men were holding Craik, and Grice was coming after Rollison, there were footsteps above their heads. Rollison put his shoulder to the door of the back-bedroom and broke it down. As he stood aside, a bullet came from the window.
“Look out!” he shouted.
He could not see into the room as he stood against the door, taking his automatic from his pocket. Then the door swung back a little, and he saw two men by the window, one climbing out, and the other – Keller – standing still, his gun pointing towards the door.
Rollison tired through the crack.
The shot went wide but distracted Keller’s attention. Rollison pushed the door open wider and fired as the other tried to reach the window. Keller lost his grip on his gun, and Grice leapt at him, but by then Gregson was out of sight.
Rollison looked out of the window down into the narrow yard.
Gregson was standing in the middle of it, not certain what to
do. Two plainclothes men were approaching rapidly. Gregson turned and made as if to enter the shop by the kitchen door, but two more policemen entered the yard from there. Gregson looked right and left desperately, but there was nothing he could do. Rollison called down to him.
“Make up your mind, Gregson!”
The vicious expression on Gregson’s face was made absurdly meaningless as the police closed on him from both sides.
Rollison turned back to the room.
Keller, who was not badly wounded, was glaring at him. His fine brown eyes were filled with malignance, but he no longer looked impressive.
“Now all we need to know is why they were so anxious to frame Kemp,” Rollison said.
“Surely because he could lead to Straker,” Grice suggested. “Much more likely that Kemp actually knew something without realising its significance,” said Rollison.
He broke off outside the door of the bedroom where he had seen Craik apparently on the point of killing himself. On the bed were several books, which looked like ordinary ledgers. He went closer. One was marked:
St. Guy’s Poor People’s Relief Fund.
Another was marked:
Church Reconstruction.
A third:
Church Accounts.
“Now what have you found?” demanded Grice.
“The thing we wanted, I think,” said Rollison, opening one of the pages. “Yes – end of fiscal year for St. Guy’s – July 31st. In about a week, the accounts would have had to be shown. Honorary Treasurer – Joseph Craik, Esq.” He turned over some of the pages, smiling oddly. “Many, many entries,” he went on. “Almost certainly the records of the whisky transactions.” As the old Vicar was so ill, Craik had everything under his own control. This looked quite safe, until Kemp came along. The day was fast approaching when Kemp would want to see the accounts. Falsified accounts – not smaller, but infinitely larger than they had any right to be. Obviously it was essential that Kemp should not come across them until dummy accounts had been made up. “You certainly find him everywhere,” Rollison added, heavily.
