The Toff and the Deadly Priest (12 page)

“Very good, sir,” said Jolly, who was used to attempting the impossible, but never complained, for Rollison never asked him to attempt what he would not try himself.

Still in a good humour, Rollison left the flat before his man, remembering that he had not yet had dinner. He had missed it two nights running, and decided that he could safely afford an hour at his club. He managed to get a single table and thus avoided conversation. Soon after nine o'clock, he was on his way to the home of Cobbett the crane driver. There, he was told by a sharp-voiced, middle-aged woman – his mother – that Cobbett had not been in all day, and she had no idea where he might be found if not at the Docker. When Rollison tried to get more particulars about her son, she closed up completely. Did that mean she knew that Cobbett would be in trouble if she talked?

He went to the Docker, but Cobbett was not there.

With veiled insolence, the barman told him that Cobbett had not been in all day, and the blousy barmaid, who had once inspired Keller's mob to attack a man who had waited for her after opening hours, did not even spare Rollison a glance. None of the customers appeared to recognise him.

On the other side of the road, when he left, were three familiar looking men, and further along, another three. They were plainclothes policemen, trying to look the part of dock labourers. That was a mistake. Thoughtfully, he strolled towards Jupe Street and was near it when a police car turned the corner. In it, he saw Chumley.

“So the Docker's is going to be raided,” mused Rollison, and was smiling when he reached the hall.

Kemp was reading in his little room. He put his book down and jumped up.

“Billy the Bull's been asking for you, Rolly.”

“When?” asked Rollison.

“He's sent that bald-headed second round several times, since five o'clock,” said Kemp. “I wouldn't be surprised if—”

Before he could finish, the door opened and Billy the Bull's second danced in, squeaked complainingly that he could not waste all day, and demanded that Rollison should go with him. He talked shrilly and at length, but by winks, nods and asides, gave the impression that he was aware that he was taking part in a conspiracy of great importance. Rollison humoured him, and not until they were out of Kemp's hearing did the little man say: “Billy said I wasn't to tell anyone
where
we was goin', Mr. Ar, ‘sept you.”

“Where are we going?” asked Rollison, patiently.

“St. Guy's hall, near East Wharf,” answered the bald-headed man. “Billy and me have bin watchin' it, like you said. Took over at three o'clock, we did. A coupla ruffians” – he brought the word out contemptuously – “tried to start a fight. A fight, wiv Billy!”

“They couldn't have known Billy,” said Rollison, quickening his pace. The little man danced by his side and soon they were within sight of the wharf. There was no sign of activity, for the ship had been cleared of its cargo. The W.V.S. canteen was not there, and the wooden hall, with its flimsy wire fence wrecked by the previous night's incident, looked small and lonely against the high walls of warehouses some distance behind it.

Billy the Bull was pacing up and down.

“I'm glad you've come, Mr. Ar,” he said, worriedly, “I dunno that I like it. Bill Ebbutt told me that I wasn't ter come too close, an' wasn't ter look inside, but if you arst me, it's time someone did.”

“Why?” asked Rollison, hurrying towards the hall.

“Two fellers tried to start a fight,” said Billy, “but I wouldn't ‘ave nothing to do wiv' them, Mr. Ar.” He was very serious. “Soon's I looked rahnd, there was another couple on the other side've the ‘all, but I never seed them go in. Do yer fink we've found sunnink?”

“It wouldn't surprise me,” said Rollison.

It took him five minutes to pick the lock of the hall, under the admiring gaze of Billy and his companion. He pushed open the door and stepped cautiously inside, but there was no need for caution. The only occupant was Cobbett. He had been strangled, and his crumpled body lay in the middle of the floor.

 

 

Fresh from what had proved a fruitless raid on the Docker, where all the liquor had been legally obtained, and where the occupants had openly derided the police, Chumley went to the scene of Cobbett's murder. He was not in a good mood; and was still sore with the Toff. He asked questions, browbeat Billy the Bull, seemed to regret that there was evidence that Rollison had not been there alone, and said that he proposed to pull the hall down, if necessary, to find what was hidden there.

“Nothing's hidden here,” said Rollison. “If there were, they wouldn't have murdered Cobbett on the premises.”

‘”Even
you
might be wrong,” said Chumley, sarcastically.

But there was nothing hidden in the hall, nor beneath it; there was nothing to indicate that it had been used as a storage place for whisky, or other contraband. The back door had not been forced; Cobbett's murderers had used a key. There were no fingerprints, nothing that might serve as a clue, and Billy the Bull could give no reliable description of the men he had seen.

Chumley will try the other places now, thought Rollison, and one was bound to yield results. He stayed close to Chumley all the evening as they went from hall to hall. Kemp joined them, giving permission for the search freely. No one had the chance to tell Rollison of Craik's advice to Cobbett.

Nor did Kemp talk of his visitor.

There was nothing at the first hall.

By the time they reached the second, Craik, Whiting, and several other members of St. Guy's had arrived, with a crowd of sightseers, some of whom jeered, and some looked pale and worried. The comb-out of the East End was proceeding fast; suspects were being detained and questioned.

Rollison was prepared to find the store of whisky at the hall, and was wondering what his best course would be afterwards, but
nothing was found.

Kemp was relieved. Chumley was obviously disappointed. Craik was smiling, his lips quivering like a rabbit's; that might also have been with relief.

Chumley turned away from a sergeant, and said audibly: “Someone's tipped them off, that's what's happened.”

He looked meaningly towards Rollison, who ignored him and walked off with Kemp. As they neared Jupe Street, Kemp asked: “Do you think they were warned, Rollison?”

“Possibly,” conceded Rollison, “but if there were stores of the whisky in any of the halls earlier today, or even yesterday, I don't think they could have been moved without a trace. There's something I've missed,” he went on. “It's something fairly obvious, and it concerns you. Be more careful than ever.”

“I suppose you couldn't be wrong in thinking—”

“Cobbett was killed because he might have talked too freely – he was badly scared last night,” said Rollison. “O'Hara was killed for the same reason. You might be next on the list.”

“But what could
I
talk about?”

“Presumably, nothing, yet. It's something you might come across,” said Rollison. He arranged for Grice to send two Scotland Yard men to watch Kemp as unobtrusively as possible, then returned to Gresham Terrace, where Jolly found him, an hour later, in a mood not far removed from dejection. As the valet entered, Rollison looked up.

“Any luck?” he demanded.

“Not yet, sir,” began Jolly, “I—”

“I've been making you waste your time and I've wasted my own,” Rollison said, and he went into some detail. “I thought I had one thing sewn up, and when the bag was opened there wasn't even a rabbit inside. We're being played for suckers, Jolly!”

“I can't believe that, sir.”

“I can, and do,” said Rollison. “I've reached the point where I think Kemp might be being persecuted simply to distract attention from the real purpose. Note how carefully everything has been covered up. Keller – and a shadowy individual who might be Keller. Gregson taking orders one night, giving them the next. The Docker deliberately thrust into our faces – and nothing gained from the pub.”

“As you expected,” murmured Jolly.

“Yes, but I did expect something from the halls.”

Jolly said, quietly: “O'Hara and Cobbett
were
murdered, sir. I hardly think anyone would go to the lengths of murder in order to throw out a smokescreen, if I may use the allegory. Both of those men could have betrayed the leaders. That is certain.”

“Ye – es. Find their murderers, find the – Jolly!”

“Yes, sir?”

“Did I make a mistake in confiding in that foreman, Owen? Who else knew that I suspected Cobbett?”

Jolly eyed him steadily, seemed about to speak, and then changed his mind, and suggested that he should make some coffee.

“You stay where you are,” said Rollison. “What were you going to say?”

“I don't really think—” began Jolly.

“Out with it,” insisted Rollison. “I don't want concern for my feelings. If I've missed an obvious possibility, tell me. I'm beginning to think I have.”

“I don't think so, sir,” said Jolly, looking troubled. “In fact, I feel hardly justified in mentioning what sprang to my mind, but since you insist, I will tell you. You might have been wrong in confiding in Owen, but he was not the only man whom you told of your suspicions of Cobbett.”

“Now, come! Chumley may be feeling sour and might have tumbled to it, but—”

“I'm not thinking of the police, sir,” said Jolly, still ill-at-ease, “and I'm not thinking seriously of Mr. Kemp, but you
did
let him know that you considered last night's accident might have been an attempt to murder him, didn't you? And, if the mission halls were being used but were emptied in a hurry, it means that there was a leakage of information.”

“Oh, no,” said Rollison, blankly. “Our fighting parson? Now, be serious, Jolly!”

He neither expected nor hoped to silence his man; in fact his words constituted a challenge, and probably nothing else would have encouraged Jolly to explain his reasoning. Nettled, Jolly said: “The truth is, sir, that we are in danger of surrendering to sentiment, which prevents us from considering Mr. Kemp as a suspect. After all, the trouble started six months ago.”

Rollison whistled. “By George!”

“That was when Mr. Kemp first took up his position at St. Guy's,” continued Jolly, firmly.

“Moreover, although any one of a number of people might have given warning that you thought the halls might be used to store the whisky, only Mr. Kemp and Owen could have known that you proposed to visit Cobbett. And there is no reason at all for imagining that Owen knew anything about your suspicions of the halls.”

“The only man who always rings the bell is Kemp,” said Rollison, impressed in spite of himself.

“It
is
a fact, sir,” said Jolly, reluctantly. “I don't know that I would have thought of it myself, except for a rather strange discovery I made this evening. I visited several of the less respectable nightclubs, and at one of them an attendant was extremely impertinent.”

He paused, but Rollison kept silent.

“He went so far as to say, sir,” said Jolly, feelingly, “that I looked a sanctimonious hypocrite. Those were his actual words. He added that he did not want any more visitors who wore their collars the wrong way round during the day. In the end he apologised, and told me that some seven or eight months ago a youthful clergyman was a frequent visitor. I described Mr. Kemp.”

Jolly stopped.

“And the description fitted?” asked Rollison.

“I'm afraid it did, sir,” said Jolly. “Naturally it set up a train of thought, so I made other inquiries. I learned that Mr. Kemp held a curacy at one of the Mayfair churches, before he went to St. Guy's.” When Rollison still did not speak, he went on almost appealingly: “I did say that our sentiments had blinded us to the possibility, didn't I, sir? In spite of what I learned, I was – I am! – reluctant to think that the circumstances are anything more than coincidental. Aren't you, sir?”

Rollison did not answer.

 

 

After some minutes of silence, Jolly, looking deeply concerned, as if moved by the expression on Rollison's face, moved restlessly and asked: “Are you feeling all right, sir?”

Rollison bestirred himself, lit a cigarette, and said: “Yes. Make that coffee, will you?”

He sat back in an easy chair, smoking, his eyes narrowed towards the ceiling. He did not stir until Jolly came in, placed the tray on a small table, and turned to go. “Bring a cup for yourself,” said Rollison.

“Thank you, sir.” Jolly returned with cup and saucer, and Rollison watched while he poured out. On such occasions, it was not Jolly's habit to sit on the edge of the chair – if Rollison suggested a drink together, then Jolly rightly assumed that he did not want to stand on ceremony. When Jolly was sitting back and stirring his coffee, Rollison appeared to relax.

“You're quite right,” he said, with a faint smile. “Kemp is the obvious suspect Number One – a shattering realization. I should have remembered that Isobel Crayne told me that she had heard him preach in Mayfair. But unless I am badly mistaken, he is developing a fondness for Miss Crayne. Both of them stood in the way of the crane load last night, and both appeared to be in equal danger. On the other hand, if he were expecting it, he would have known which way to jump. A quick eye and a quick hand – he could have dodged to one side with her at the last moment, and thus lent the utmost credence to the apparent fact that he was nearly a victim. I would probably have been killed, and saved a lot of trouble. Even if I escaped, I would be disinclined to suspect Kemp, whatever the indications. The accident might even have been planned without any thought that I might be present, solely to make the police and me look anywhere but at Kemp.”

“It is so, sir,” said Jolly. “But—”

“If that's the truth, he had me on a piece of string,” Rollison interrupted. “He waited until the last moment, to give me a chance of pushing them aside. An unsung hero! The truth is, he appeared to have no more warning than I. I don't remember vividly, but he gave me the impression of being petrified as he saw the thing coming towards him. Good acting, perhaps.”

“We mustn't take it for granted that he is involved—” began Jolly, only to be interrupted again.

“We aren't taking anything for granted.” Rollison drank half of his coffee and put the cup down. “I'm worried, Jolly – apart from the shattering possibility that Kemp's involved and the consequent possibility that I have been completely taken in, it's a very ugly situation.”

“In what way, sir?”

“If you've discovered that Kemp was once a frequenter of nightclubs, don't you think the police know all about it? They must have. And they've been very clever,” he added ruefully, “Grice was even more crafty than Chumley.” When Jolly looked mystified, Rollison went on: “Chumley has persistently refused to admit that I was interested primarily in Kemp. Grice emphasised the point, but both of them have lured me into being more than ordinarily emphatic – ‘Kemp,' said I, ‘only Kemp! Nothing but Kemp!' If Grice thinks as you do, and remembers hearing that from me, isn't he going to assume that I really started from Kemp in the West End, and am trying to pull the wool over his eyes?”

“I suppose he is,” admitted Jolly, reluctantly.

“Of course he is! So, if Kemp knows nothing of it, he's being shot at from both sides – by Gregson – Keller as well as by the police. Of the two, the police are more dangerous, because Kemp would have the devil of a job to live down even a temporary detention. Remember how one affected Craik! Whereas, if Kemp does know—” He broke off, standing up abruptly. “I can't believe that he does!”

“I can hardly bring myself to believe it,” murmured Jolly. “But the evidence—”

“Yes, I know. And how clever it would be!” Rollison went to the telephone and dialled a number. “Hallo,” he said at last, is Miss Isobel Crayne in, please? . . . Yes, I'll hold on.” In a few moments, however, he was disappointed, for Isobel was spending the night with friends in Caterham. After some trouble he got the number of the friends, but when he put a call through, he was told that there must be some mistake, Isobel had not been there.

“Curious,” commented Rollison, thoughtfully.

“What did you propose to do, sir?” asked Jolly.

“Get help from Miss Crayne,” said Rollison, cryptically.

“Do you propose to do anything about the man Owen?” Jolly appeared disinterested in Isobel's nonappearance at Caterham.

“I think we'll murmur a word into the ears of the police about Owen,” Rollison said. “There's no reason why we should not be cooperative.”

Grice was not at the Yard, but an alert sergeant took his message and promised to see that Owen's record was investigated. Satisfied and apparently in a better humour, Rollison went to bed.

He woke just after seven, and was in his bath before Jolly made tea. At nine o'clock, he telephoned Isobel again, to be told that she was not expected home until eleven o'clock. At nine-fifteen, as he was about to leave the flat, Grice telephoned and wanted to know more about Owen.

“I can't tell you anymore,” said Rollison, “except that I told him I thought Cobbett might have been paid to make that mistake with the crane. Since Cobbett was murdered, Owen becomes an obvious suspect. The moment I realised that, I telephoned you.”

“The very first moment?” asked Grice, sceptically.

“Yes,” said Rollison, “I'm getting trustful, aren't I? Have you learned anything during the night?”

“No, there've been no developments here,” said Grice.

Rollison rang off and went out. He called on an old friend, the vicar of a Mayfair church, and asked him what he knew of Ronald Kemp. He did not expect to see a frown cross the parson's good-natured face.

“What has he been doing?” asked the parson.

“Trying to put the East End to rights in a hurry,” said Rollison. “Did you hear about his fight?”

“What fight?” The vicar was amused when Rollison told him, but quickly frowned again. “It isn't out of character with Kemp, Rolly, and yet – well, I hesitate to talk too freely. I suppose I can speak in complete confidence?”

“Yes,” said Rollison, and added deliberately: “Either Kemp is in serious trouble, or else he's a very dangerous young man.”

“I'll tell you what I know,” the Vicar promised.

Kemp had been the curate at a neighbouring church. He was a promising preacher and, to all appearances, sincere in all he said. Then rumours spread, saying that he was a frequenter of nightclubs and that he did not behave as might have been expected of him. He was warned. He gave no explanation, but continued his nightclub visits, and was eventually taken to task by his Bishop, a scholarly man who might well have little patience with the follies of youth.

“A pedant?” asked Rollison.

“And a theologian,” said the Vicar. “But I think I am justified in saying that he's out of touch with the modern trend of Christianity. Perhaps another man would have had a greater influence on Kemp. In fact the discussion became heated, and Kemp resigned his curacy immediately.”

“Offering no explanation?” asked Rollison.

“Not to my knowledge,” said the Vicar. “But there is a man who might be able to give you more information. I'm really telling you what he has told me.”

Rollison left, very thoughtful indeed, to visit a Mr. Arthur Straker, a wealthy member of Kemp's Mayfair church. The name seemed familiar, but Rollison did not place it at once.

The man was an urbane, pleasant individual who received Rollison at breakfast in a luxury flat near Hyde Park. Rollison accepted a cup of coffee and explained why he had called. Straker looked intrigued.

“Is that young rebel making trouble again?”

“Rebel?” echoed Rollison.

“There's no other word for Kemp! Had he found his right medium first, instead of coming to a wealthy parish, he might not have been one. Perhaps one should have called him a misfit. It was obvious to me from the start that he would have little patience with orthodoxy. He is not yet old enough to realise that riches and sincerity can go together. Shall I say that he takes many of the passages in the scriptures too literally. ‘It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle—'” He paused.

“Yes, I've heard the quotation,” said Rollison, drily.

“Kemp read this as meaning that it was impossible for a rich man to behave as a Christian!” went on Straker. “He's told me so to my face!” He chuckled. “I liked the young scamp, especially for that. Instead of resigning immediately, as I advised him to do, he decided to crusade amongst the vice dens of Mayfair!”

“Oh,” said Rollison, heavily.

“In fact, he got himself into disrepute by visiting unsavoury places and mixing with some of the more hectic young people,” said Straker. “I don't know that he did himself any harm. Unfortunately, I think he was reproached rather too abruptly about it and refused to try to explain his point of view to the vicar. His point of view was simply that only by knowing what was happening could a bad thing be fought I'm afraid he left the parish in a very tense atmosphere, and took up the curacy of St. Guy's on the rebound. He went from one extreme to the other, genuinely sincere in wanting to find out how the rest of the world lived. I hope he hasn't got into serious trouble?”

“He's giving plenty of people plenty of headaches,” said Rollison, and rose to go. “Do you think there is any likelihood of your being deceived about his good intentions?”

“D' you mean, was he really sowing wild oats, and using high-sounding motives to explain himself?” Straker asked.

“Yes.”

“It shouldn't be ruled out as a possibility,” admitted Straker, “but had that been the case, he would have defended himself more – gone to a great deal of trouble to explain himself, because his conscience would have been uneasy. As it was he felt quite clear in his conscience. Since others preferred to impute the worst of motives, he allowed them to imagine what they liked. I like to think that he was more frank with me than anyone else,” added Straker. “I often wondered if I could have been more tactful in my handling of him, but I was convinced almost from the start that he was a misfit here. He has a better chance of finding his level and crusading where he is now.”

Rollison put his head on one side.

“Do you really think so?”

Straker chuckled, urbanely.

They parted on good terms, and Rollison went to Mount Street, where Isobel Crayne lived. She had not yet returned, but he waited for less than ten minutes when she came in tempestuously, flinging her hat down as she entered the hall, calling ‘good morning' to the maid who opened the door and then stopping, astonished, at the sight of Rollison in the drawing room.

“Why, Rolly – what a surprise!”

“You're very gay for so early in the morning,” Rollison said. “Have you been places?”

“I've had a busman's holiday!”

“I knew you hadn't been to Caterham,” said Rollison.

Her smile disappeared and she looked at him in sudden alarm.

“You haven't told.”

“I haven't told a soul,” said Rollison. The door of the drawing room was closed and she was looking at him with an intensity which made him begin to worry. But he went on lightly: “I got the Caterham ‘phone number from your mother, but was told that you hadn't been to Caterham. It was not curiosity,” he added, quickly, “I wanted to talk to you – in fact, I want your help.”

“About what?”

“Ronald Kemp.”

“Then you don't know—” she began, and broke off.

Rollison watched her frown as she looked out of the window, obviously collecting her thoughts. The sun was striking through the glass and caught one side of her dark hair, filling it with lights. But for her snub nose, she would have been really beautiful, and there was the freshness of youth about her, which gave her so much vitality.

“You're uncanny, sometimes,” she said abruptly. “I suppose I'd better tell you. I went to St. Guy's last evening. It was my night off, and Ronald had asked me to spend an evening with him. Rolly, don't get ideas! I wasn't sure what time I would get home, so I arranged to stay at a hostel in Mile End Road. We just talked. There's something magnificent about him, isn't there?”

“I once thought so,” agreed Rollison.

“Once?” Her forehead wrinkled, and she looked as if she could easily take offence. “I don't like the way you said that.”

“I'm not going to make myself popular I can see,” said Rollison. “Isobel, when you first came to see me about Kemp, did you know him at all?”

She stared at him in astonishment. “Of course not! Rolly, what are you getting at?”

“I knew this was going to be delicate,” said Rollison. “But I can't believe you would try to put anything across me.”

Isobel said quietly: “I don't know what curious idea you have in your head, Richard, but I don't like the insinuation. I don't know why you should worry about it, but the truth is that I had heard Ronald Kemp preach in Mayfair once or twice. Later, I heard a rumour that he had left the district in a huff, and I had no idea where he was going. I certainly wouldn't have come to you had I not thought that you might be able to help him. I had never met him personally.”

Rollison's eyes twinkled.

“'Richard' being reproving! Isobel, dear, Ronald Kemp is in a bad spot. The police will probably suspect him of knowing more about the goings on than he professes.”

“Do you mean
you
suspect him?” Isobel demanded.

“All I know is that there's some circumstantial evidence against him,” Rollison assured her. “I want to try to make sure of his real motives before going any further. That's where I want your help.”