The Toff and the Deadly Priest (13 page)

“I'll have nothing to do with any trickery where he is concerned!” Isobel declared, hotly.

“Not trickery,” protested Rollison. “A necessary stage in seeing that he doesn't get clobbered for something he didn't do.” He took her hand. “I've grown fond of Ronald Kemp, and really want to help.”

“What do you want me to do?” Isobel asked, reluctantly.

“When will you be seeing him again?”

“This evening.”

‘Tell him that at ten o'clock, in my flat, there is to be a meeting which will solve the whole mystery,” said Rollison. “But don't let him know a minute before nine-fifteen.”

“I don't think I like it,” said Isobel “I think you ought to tell me more about what you're planning.”

 

He told her just what he planned, what Kemp's West End reputation had been, and just why he wanted to make sure that there was no justification for the
canard.
Isobel heard him out without an interruption, and surprised him by speaking with a wealth of contempt.

“You must be
mad,
even to think of such a thing!”

“All I want is evidence that I am mad,” said Rollison, mildly.

“And you think Ronald might come to your flat when he knows that everything is being settled tonight?”

“I think it will help to find the truth about him,” said Rollison. “You'll amplify that story, of course say I'm interviewing a man,
one
man, who is going to name the chief rogue.”

“It sounds beastly,” said Isobel.

“Be your age!” exclaimed Rollison. “If Ronald's mixed up in this affair, it's necessary to find out for the sake of a lot of people – especially that of Isobel Crayne! If he isn't, then it doesn't matter a tinker's curse.”

“I suppose you're right,” Isobel said, reluctantly.

“You'll do it? Good girl!”

“I mustn't tell him before a quarter past nine you say.”

“No – nor much later.”

“All right,” she said.

She did not say that she might not see Kemp, and Rollison assumed that they had a date. If Kemp were innocent, they would make a good couple.

As soon as he reached the flat Rollison telephoned the office, to find that a message had already been received from Cracknell, confirming his appointment to the official inquiry into the whisky racket.

“And what have you in mind for me, today?” asked Jolly.

“The same again,” said Rollison. “Try to trace the source of supply in the West End.”

“And you will operate in the neighbourhood of St. Guy's, sir?”

“Can you think of a better hole?” asked Rollison.

 

He was at Bill Ebbutt's gymnasium just after half-past twelve, but nothing of interest had come in. Ebbutt's men were keeping a watch on the Whitings. Next he saw Kemp, in one of the church halls, putting it straight after the police search. He saw the Yard men whom he had asked Grice to send to follow Kemp; so that was all right. He went on to Craik's shop, which was crowded with customers, then visited East Wharf, where work was going on apace, unloading another cargo.

Owen came across to him.

“Do you know anything, Mr. Rollison?”

“No more than you,” said Rollison.

“I wish I could help,” said Owen. “What's it about? I
might
be able to strike something if I knew more about it.”

“I don't see what you can do,” Rollison said, “except tell me what happens to the goods you take off the ships?”

“Most of it's taken to the factories waiting for it,” Owen told him. “Some of it goes into warehouses. Why, Mr. Rollison?”

“How are the contents checked? I mean, are the cases opened here, or are they sent off without being opened.”

“Oh, they're all marked,” said Owen. “I – my stripes! You don't think there's any
smuggling
going on?”

“Could there be?”

“If anything got past me, I'd tear my shirt!” declared Owen. “I don't think it's likely. The Port Authority police haven't warned me, anyhow.”

“Will you keep a careful look-out?” asked Rollison.

Owen assured him he would, giving the impression that he was genuinely anxious to help.

 

Rollison was deliberating on his next move when a fair-haired youngster, barefooted and dressed in a grubby singlet and patched flannel shorts, came racing towards him. The cobbles did not appear to hurt his feet.

“Mr. Ar, Mr. Ar!” he called, and came to a standstill in front of the Toff. “Mr. Ar, Bill ses will you ‘phone yon man? He ses you'd know who I mean.”

“I do, thanks,” said Rollison, gave him sixpence, and went to a telephone kiosk and called Jolly.

“I'm very glad you've come through so quickly, sir. I have discovered Gregson's West End address.”

“That's good work,” said Rollison. “Where is it?”

“The Daisy Club, in Pond Street,” answered Jolly. “I saw him going in, and a little questioning of a cleaner elicited the fact that the man whom we know as Keller is also a frequenter of the club. Another thing, sir – a bottle of the – er – firewater, was delivered by special messenger this morning.”

“A bottle?” asked Rollison. “Who on earth—” and then he chuckled. “Oh, yes, I asked one of the girls at the office to buy me a bottle. Any note to say which club it came from?”

“There is a sealed note accompanying it,” said Jolly.

“Open it, will you?” said Rollison.

After a pause, Jolly spoke again.

“It is signed: ‘Mabel Bundy, Sergeant, sir, and” – there was the slightest unsteadiness in Jolly's voice— “it says that the bottle was bought at the Daisy Club, as requested.”

“Have you tried it?” asked Rollison.

“I did venture to taste it, sir. I think it is exactly the same brand as that which you brought from Craik's shop.”

“So all things point to the Daisy Club,” said Rollison, with satisfaction. “Telephone my office, thank Sergeant Bundy for me, then come along to the Daisy Club.”

“Very good, sir,” said Jolly.

Rollison walked to Whitechapel Tube Station.

There was a faint doubt in his mind, for just as everything had once pointed to the Docker and the church halls, it seemed that they were now pointing to the Daisy Club. But this time, there seemed to have been no effort on anyone's part to make him pay attention to the place. The purchase of a bottle of the whisky from the club by Sergeant Mabel Bundy was quite unconnected with Jolly's discovery, and appeared to have been a lucky stroke.

Pond Street was a dingy thoroughfare off Shaftesbury Avenue.
‘
The Daisy Club, Secretary F. Legge
'
,
was written on a varnished board nailed to the porch at the foot of a flight of narrow stairs, which were fitted with hair-carpet. Jolly was at the far end of the street, and Rollison walked to meet him.

It was then that he received the biggest shock he had yet had in
l'aflaire
Kemp.

In the doorway of a shop, out of sight until he passed it, two plainclothes men were standing. There was nothing unusual in seeing Yard men in Pond Street, but these were the two men whom, not long before, he had seen outside Kemp's hall.

“What is it, sir?” asked Jolly, as he drew up. “Kemp's shadows. They might have been given a new assignment,” said Rollison, “but I doubt it.”

They walked past the two Yard men towards the Club, Rollison on edge in case Kemp was upstairs.

 

 

No one was on the first-floor landing.

Rollison reached it just ahead of Jolly. He looked at three doors facing him, and another flight of stairs. He listened at each of the doors, but heard nothing. Jolly, who had gone ahead, stood at the top of the next flight, beckoning. As Rollison reached him, he heard voices.

One was quite unmistakable.

“You know very well I don't!” growled Ronald Kemp.

He was speaking in one of two rooms leading from the landing. The words
‘
Daisy Club
'
were written on the door, and there was no other notice. The closed door looked flimsy. Rollison stepped closer, standing on one side with Jolly on the other.

The voice of Gregson came next, and Rollison caught Jolly's eye. He hated the implications in Kemp's visit, but forced himself to listen.

“Please yourself,” said Gregson. “You may—”

Footsteps sounded from downstairs. Rollison heard them and turned abruptly – and, on the lower landing, he saw the peeling face of Superintendent Grice. He was taken so much by surprise that he missed Gregson's next words, but the shrill ringing of a telephone bell cut them short.

Grice reached the landing.

Gregson said something in a harsh voice; then there was silence in the room.

“Hallo, Rolly!” said Grice, with remarkable heartiness. “I wondered if you'd be here!” He stepped forward and rapped on the door. There was no response, just utter silence.

“You shouldn't have done that,” Rollison whispered. “They've been warned.”

The door opened abruptly, and Gregson stood on the threshold. Behind him was Kemp; ‘Keller', by the window was a third man, who held an automatic pistol. Keller's right hand was in his pocket.

“I shouldn't use those guns,” said Grice, mildly.

Gregson swung round on Kemp, his face livid. The curate was staring, as if taken completely unawares.

“You double-crossing swine, you've brought the police. Why, I'd like to cut your throat!”

“That's enough,” said Grice.

Then Keller put a bullet between them, and as they backed away, involuntarily, he and Gregson rushed out of the room. Rollison put out his foot. Gregson jumped over it, flinging out his hand and catching Rollison on the side of the head. That alone would not have been enough to put Rollison out, but the door opposite opened and two other men appeared, both of them carrying coshes. Almost before he knew what was happening, Rollison was in the middle of a furious fight, most of the time keeping off savage blows. He thought Kemp was in the thick of it, too. Grice was stretched out on the floor, and Gregson and ‘Keller' had escaped.

Then the fighting stopped.

Jolly had one of the men gripped powerfully and unable to move, and, inside the room, Kemp had knocked the other gunman out. Kemp was looking down at his victim, and Rollison straightened up and smoothed down his coat.

“What the devil
is
going on?” demanded Kemp.

“Don't you know?” demanded Rollison gruffly.

“I don't! I—”

Grice, whom Rollison turned to help to his feet, interrupted him. It was not often that Grice looked angry, but he did now, and his voice held a harsh note.

“I think you know quite enough, Mr. Kemp. What are you doing here?”

“I had a telephone call—” began Kemp.

“I see,” sneered Grice. “You had a telephone call asking you to come to the Daisy Club this morning. You'd no idea what you were wanted for – you are just the innocent victim of a hoax?”

Kemp's face drained of its colour.

“That is what happened,” he said, coldly.

“I shall take a lot of convincing.”

“If you prefer not to believe me, that is your affair,” said Kemp, turning to Rollison. “Do you know this man?”

“He's Superintendent Grice, of New Scotland Yard,” Rollison said drily.

“I see that the manners of the police are alike from headquarters downwards,” said Kemp, bitingly.

Grice ignored the rudeness.

“I have a number of questions to ask you, Mr. Kemp, and will be glad if you will come with me. I am not at this juncture making any charge against you, but you should be warned that anything you say may be used in evidence.”

Kemp stared at him, coldly, then swung round on Rollison.

“Are you going to
let
him do this?”

“I'm afraid I can't stop him. But you needn't go, you know, although if you refuse, he may prefer a charge.”

From amazement, Kemp's expression became one of anger. He looked as if he could hardly keep his fists to himself.

“So you brought the police here. I have no objection to coming with you, Superintendent.” His look suggested that he would have liked to add that he would gladly go anywhere out of sight of Rollison, who did not speak again. Grice, slightly mollified, led Kemp out of the room. Several Scotland Yard men arrived and began to search the premises.

Rollison was aware of Jolly's inquiring gaze.

“Quite a morning, isn't it, Jolly? The best laid schemes and all the rest of it. No meeting this evening, no catch, no trap. A curious business from the beginning. It's time we started work!”

One of the plainclothes men looked at him curiously.

“On what, sir?” asked Jolly.

“Disabusing the fixed police mind,” said Rollison. “Oh, a splendid case has been built up against Kemp, and it will take some breaking. Our job is to break it.” He led the way to the deserted street. A car was disappearing round the corner, and against the back window he saw the silhouette of Kemp's head. He walked in the car's wake, with Jolly, until they reached Mount Street.

“Are you going to see Miss Crayne?” asked Jolly.

“As a bearer of bad tidings, yes. But also of hope. Come with me, it will save me telling the same story twice.”

Isobel received them in her father's study, which she used as an office for voluntary work. She was dressed in the familiar W.V.S. green uniform. There was restraint in her smile as she greeted Rollison and nodded to Jolly.

“Is there trouble?” she demanded, before Rollison could speak.

“The police have forestalled us,” said Rollison. “Your young man is in a really nasty spot.”

“Did you—”

“I hadn't a thing to do with it,” said Rollison hardily. “Kemp was at a particularly hot nightclub – I should say, at its office. He was overheard talking with men who used violence on the police. There couldn't be much stronger evidence that he was associating with thieves.”

Isobel sat down, slowly.

“There
must
be an explanation,” she said, in a composed voice.

“Kemp was heard talking to them in a familiar manner, and when the police arrived, he was accused by one of them of a double-cross,” said Rollison. “Believe me, the evidence is there. Only the stubborn pride of your young man prevented him from making convincing denials. Pride is his chief shortcoming.”

“Will you
please
say what you mean?”

“Yes indeed,” Rollison promised. “I mean that this morning I didn't feel too sure of Ronald, but now I'm convinced that he is being very cleverly framed. I think he told the truth when he said that he had been called to the club by telephone, and it was done so that the police should find him there. The other men who matter escaped, and seemed confident that the police won't find them. They allowed themselves to be seen going in by Jolly, presumably to get me there too. They have realised that the police suspect Kemp, and are doing their best to make sure it goes further. We've a big job on our hands, and there isn't much time to lose.”

“You're not just saying this to comfort me, I hope,” said Isobel, quietly.

“Now why should I try anything so foolish with a big, fine lass like you! No, this last attempt is so glaringly obvious. Kemp
is
being framed, and it's up to us to prove it. Do you know the foreman at East Wharf?”

“Owen, you mean? Yes.”

“Do you like him?”

“He's quite an inoffensive little man, I would say.”

Rollison grimaced. “He wouldn't like to hear you say so, he fancies himself as a he-man, a slave-driver, a – but that doesn't matter! Instead of telling Kemp about the meeting in my flat, tell Owen. He's on the overtime shift tonight, but you'll have to make the opportunity yourself. Can you do it?”

“I'll manage it somehow!”

“That's the girl!” exclaimed Rollison. “Don't let him guess that you've been prompted, drop it into ordinary conversation, but try to make sure that only Owen can hear you. As for time – well, make your own. Whatever time you talk to him, tell him the meeting is due three-quarters of an hour afterwards.”

“Why?” asked Isobel.

“Because he might try to break up the party,” said Rollison. “If he does, he'll have to work quickly. In short, if he's really involved and alarmed, he'll send some of his boy-friends and there'll be quite a shiny.”

“Will
you
be all right?”

“I shall be wonderful!” Rollison assured her. “Don't worry about me! Think of Billy the Bull.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Isobel, and began to smile.

“That's the spirit!” said Rollison. “Let's go, Jolly!”

They left Isobel still smiling. On the way to Gresham Terrace, Jolly asked whether Rollison really meant what he had said. Rollison left him in no doubt. He believed Gregson and ‘Keller' had seized on his interest in Kemp to fasten guilt on to the curate, whose resentment was likely to create a wrong impression with the police.

“And you're throwing a party tonight,” Rollison went on. “Billy the Bull and three or four of the heftier members of Bill's club – feed them well, don't spare the points! If Owen's our man, be ready for him.”

“Won't you be there, sir?”

“I don't know,” said Rollison, “we haven't been able to plan far ahead in this show yet. I'll make the arrangements with Bill Ebbutt, and the guests will start arriving at any time after seven o'clock.”

“I will entertain them as well as I can,” Jolly assured him. “If you are right, sir, they are being very clever – almost too clever.”

“That's it, precisely,” said Rollison. “Too clever by half. I don't believe in such open-handed presents to the police, and when Grice is more himself I think he'll begin to have doubts, although he'll have to go on with the investigation into Kemp. On the whole, it shouldn't do Kemp any harm.”

“Provided he gets a clean bill, sir,” said Jolly.

“Yes,” said Rollison, unsmilingly. “Yes, provided we can clear him. You know one thing.”

“What particular thing have you in mind, sir?”

“From the beginning, they wanted to get rid of Kemp. I'm assuming that he is a victim, and not a conspirator! They tried to drum him out, by ostracising him. That failed. They tried to kill him by accident. That failed – and they realised that if he were murdered, it would mean a tremendous fuss. Then I gave them the idea of making Kemp the scapegoat, and they didn't lose much time. They have always a scapegoat, from the shadowy Keller who might or might not exist. There's always a dummy, be it a person or a place.
Very
clever, Jolly!”

“Yes, sir. Do you think the whisky is brought in at East Wharf and distributed from there?”

“It could be.”

“I think you told me you had asked the Superintendent to give special attention to the Irish dock workers, sir – were you serious about that?”

“Partly,” said Rollison. “But only because O'Hara and the ‘other Irishman' whom Craik mentioned, set me thinking along those lines.”

“If Craik has been a party, even to warehousing the whisky,” said Jolly, “he might be able to give you information.”

“Yes, probably. But the odds are that none of the halls was used to store the stuff. When that theory was exploded much of the case against Craik being hand-in-glove with them was blown sky high.”

“I suppose so, sir,” said Jolly, reluctantly.

“In other words, your advice is still watch Craik,” said Rollison. “Yes. We mustn't forget that he tried to kill himself. You're right, Jolly, he wants watching. Lots of people want watching very closely. And we want to start thinking. If the whisky is unloaded at the wharf, it's probably taken away immediately. Therefore, lorry drivers would be involved. Who does the cartage work for the wharf?”

“A firm named Straker Brothers,” said Jolly. “I have seen the name on a number of lorries there.”

Rollison paused.

“Straker
Brothers? Jolly, I haven't been very good – not very good at all,” he repeated, softly. “I think perhaps we're getting places!
Straker Brothers
,” he repeated. “Jolly, I saw a Mr. Arthur Straker this morning, and he gave Kemp a very good reputation. Curious fact. Mr. Straker lives in South Audley Street. Find out whether he is connected with Straker Brothers, will you? Find out, also, if the same firm do much work for any of the big distilleries. Don't try the police, but otherwise move mountains to find out.
Straker
Brothers,” he repeated, and went to the telephone.

After he had dialled a Mayfair number, a courteous voice announced that it was the residence of the Rev. Martin Anstruther. Anstruther, who had been the vicar of Kemp's first church, spoke to him immediately afterwards, and in a quiet, cultured voice, said that he would gladly see Mr. Rollison.

After arranging to go at once, Rollison went to his bedroom, and for the first time in this affair put a loaded automatic into his pocket.

Twenty minutes later, at nearly one o'clock, the gentle-voiced Mr. Anstruther received Rollison in a spacious room, the walls of which were lined with books, and a glance at these showed him that they ranged from theology to philosophy, including works in ancient Greek and Latin. The room was warm, the carpet soft underfoot, and the furniture heavy but in keeping with the study of a scholar. That the Rev. Martin Anstruther was a scholar was apparent at the first sight of his high forehead and the gentle expression on his lined face. He was an academician, who doubtless had to force himself to take part in the bustle which a church in Mayfair meant for him. There could have been no greater contrast between this man and Kemp.