The Toff and the Deadly Priest (14 page)

“How can I help you, Mr. Rollison?” he inquired.

“I'm trying to help a friend of mine,” said Rollison. “He once worked with you, sir – a Mr. Ronald Kemp.”

“Oh, indeed. And how is he?” There was no animosity in the old, quiet voice.

“Very fit, very energetic – and in trouble,” answered Rollison.

“I am afraid that young man will always be in trouble, until he learns discretion,” said Anstruther, with a charming smile. “I am afraid that he was rather too boisterous for the curacy here, although I liked him very well. He was surprisingly well-read, and
very
sincere. I thought his unconventional methods were unsuited to this part of London, and yet – I sympathised with him. Had he stayed with me, I think he would have done a great deal of good.”

“Why did he go?” asked Rollison.

“There were several reasons,” said Anstruther. “The main one was that in his earnest endeavours to root out vice, he laid himself open to grave suspicion of being addicted to it.” The old cleric smiled again. “I am afraid that in the world of today, appearances count for too much. Many of my parishioners disliked being guided in their devotions by a man who, it was widely known, spent much time in the haunts of the worldly.” There was a hint of irony in his voice. “Finally, I had to ask him to cease his activities, and I am afraid he lost his temper. A very headstrong young man. Pride will be a great disadvantage to him, until he conquers it.”

“The deadly sin,” said Rollison, smiling.

“No sin is deadly in the young,” murmured Anstruther.

“A generous concession,” said Rollison. “Who lodged the complaints against him in the first place?”

The old eyes grew sober and gazed at him steadily. Very little passed Anstruther by, thought Rollison, wondering if Anstruther was going to ask him why he wanted to know.

Instead: “Is Kemp in serious trouble?” he asked.

“Very serious indeed.”

“And you hope I can help him.”

“I do, very much,” said Rollison.

Anstruther seemed to go into a brown study, and then said: “Several people told me that he was getting into bad company, and finally Mr. Straker advised me that the feeling against him was so strong that he would either have to cease his activities, or else resign. Mr. Straker's judgment is rarely at fault. I am quite at a loss to see how the information will help you, Mr. Rollison.”

“It might,” Rollison said, and stood up.

“Sit down, please,” said Anstruther, his gaze so compelling that Rollison obeyed. “I have been frank with you. I hope you will be as frank with me. How can such information help you?”

Rollison pondered, and then said quietly: “I understood from Mr. Straker that you, not he, had insisted on Kemp's resignation. A slip of the tongue, perhaps – or I may have misunderstood him.”

“Yes, you might have done. Look after the young man, Mr. Rollison. If there is any other way I can help, please do not hesitate to let me know.”

“I won't,” Rollison promised, and shook hands.

He felt the influence of Anstruther's words and manner as he walked from the house, but was not so absorbed that he failed to notice that he was being followed. He gave no indication that he knew, but went by a roundabout way to the flat.

The man following him was small and wiry, flashily dressed, and at great pains to pretend that he was interested in everyone but Rollison. He had not been at hand when Rollison had left the flat, nor had he followed him to Anstruther's house, so probably the house had been watched.

It could only be because Straker had wanted to find out whether he pursued his inquiries.

Even then, he did not think that any bare-faced attempt at harming him would be made in Gresham Terrace, although he was wary as he approached his flat, and put his hand to his pocket, gripping a small automatic pistol. A taxi turned into the street and came at a rattling pace towards him. He saw the flashily dressed man motion towards its driver.

The taxi slowed down and a man in the back fired at Rollison through the open window.

 

 

Rollison fired back, dodging to one side as he did so. His aim was wide, but so was that of the man in the taxi. As it drew level, two more shots were aimed at Rollison, who aimed more carefully. As the taxi reached the corner, one of the rear tyres burst. The taxi swerved across the road. The flashy man took to his heels. The driver and his passenger jumped from the taxi as it was moving, and raced towards Piccadilly. A dozen people saw the taxi crash against the curb.

Rollison turned towards the flat as Jolly came hurrying from it.

“Keep the police away, if you can,” said Rollison, “stall them for ten minutes, anyhow.”

“I'll do my best, sir.” Jolly hurried towards the scene of the crash, where a man was already pointing towards Rollison while talking to a policeman. Rollison hurried upstairs, and telephoned Grice.

“I've been wanting” began Grice.

“Never mind what you've been wanting,” said Rollison, urgently. “A Mr. Arthur Straker lives in South Audley Street. Have him watched closely, and don't let him get away, whatever you do. When you've fixed that, you might send a man to Gresham Terrace to convince the constable who is shortly coming to see me, that I only fired at the taxi in self-defence!”

“Fired? What taxi?” cried Grice. Rollison heard him lift another telephone and say into it: “Come in at once, Bray.”

“I think it was the one in which I was taken for a ride the other night,” said Rollison. “The driver has escaped. It was a daring attempt to stop me,” he went on, “but there isn't time to discuss that now. Do find out what you can about Straker.”

“I know quite a lot about Straker already,” said Grice, unexpectedly. “He is a director of a firm of cartage and transport contractors, and some of his vans have been used for delivering.”

“Whisky!” cried Rollison, exultantly. “What a pity we can't be entirely frank with each other! Anything on Straker himself?”

“No. We've been looking for one of his men.”

“Your man is Straker himself,” said Rollison confidently. “Ah, here come the coppers. Hustle your sergeant over here, won't you.”

“He won't be long,” promised Grice.

Rollison replaced the receiver, then looked up into the face of a youthful policeman who had entered with Jolly.

By the time Rollison had made a statement, the sergeant from the Yard had arrived – a clean cut individual who reassured the constable and even congratulated him on using shorthand.

When they had gone, Rollison said to Jolly: “That's Bray, the man who arrested Craik. Grice is fair.”

“Bray is having a chance to rehabilitate himself, presumably,” said Jolly, who was obviously thinking of something else. “Do you know what made the men attack you?”

“Yes. A worried Arthur Straker!”

“I thought perhaps that was the case, sir – I have been able to find out that his firm not only serves the East Wharf, but many others nearby, and also has contracts for two firms of whisky distillers. It wouldn't be surprising if we have found the distributors.”

“We certainly have,” said Rollison, beaming. “Things should move fast now. Grice will have evidence against Straker, but Straker won't know it yet, I shall still be his enemy Number I. There isn't much to do but watch Kemp. They might still try to make him the scapegoat. I should have asked Grice.”

He broke off at a ring at the front door. It was Grice who came in by himself.

“Enter the bird of ill omen,” greeted Rollison, promptly. “Have you released Kemp, yet? If not, it's time you did.”

“We have not,” said Grice.

“Have you charged him?” demanded Rollison.

“Not yet,” answered Grice.

“You can't hold him much longer in detention, can you? Will you act in defiance of all known laws of the country and common sense and hold on to him until he has a good chance of making you look a fool – which, usually, you're not.”

“Aren't you being a bit severe?” demanded Grice. “You first put us on to him.”

“Yes, I know,” said Rollison. “I thought, and think, that the young man is in great danger. And on second thoughts—” He gave Grice so charming a smile that the Yard man looked taken aback. “You ‘re a wise old bird, William! A spark of genius makes all Yard men kin! Yes, hold Kemp. If needs be, even charge him – but keep him with you. He'll at least be safe.”

“Would you mind talking like a sane man?” demanded Grice.

“
I'm
sane,” said Rollison. “Straker knows it, which is his reason for having men in taxis and with firearms. Much evil, much hypocrisy, but some radiance shining through. The power for good is greater than that for evil – but being a policeman, you probably don't think so!”

“Why have you suddenly swung over to Kemp?” demanded Grice.

Rollison told Grice all he had learned, and when he had finished Grice – picking at a piece of peeling skin – spoke thoughtfully.

“You think that Straker first had Kemp sent away from Mayfair, in order to—”

“Not sent away, driven away. He made clever use of Kemp's own chief failing, pride in himself. The same thing that made you jump to the conclusion that he was stalling. Yes, Straker discovered that Kemp was nosing about the clubs and, undoubtedly, Kemp came near to finding out something. So, what happened? Kemp was driven to the East End. Why? Because Straker, his one friend in the West End, put it to him. Early in this affair he told me that a friend had suggested that he went to see Cartwright – I think we'll find that Straker was that friend. Straker wanted him watched, and also where he could do no harm. Kemp, probably not knowing that he had discovered anything that might be hurtful to Straker & Company, set about his work of reform. His passion for putting the world right got him into trouble again. He came close to making another discovery, although we don't know what. There must be something which he would find in the ordinary course of his parish work.

“Straker must have seen his mistake, and tried to have him driven out, as he felt sure that there would be no danger. Just a fighting parson, without a friend, a failure in society circles, a failure with the lowly. But Kemp has a basic common sense. He made inquiries, discovered that I had a reputation for knowing his district, and came to see me.”

Grice laughed. “You aren't without vanity yourself, are you?”

“Who, me?” exclaimed Rollison, in amazement. “Great Scott,
I'm
not proud. Very humble, in fact. As I should be, I was once half-convinced Kemp might be the rogue. However, even if you catch Straker, even if you close up the distribution of the stuff, you haven't found the source of supply. And a lot of problems will remain. For instance, in Whitechapel – someone did
kill
O'Hara, not to mention Cobbett.”

“I was wondering how long it would be before you got to that,” said Grice, sarcastically. “Your case for Kemp is very plausible, but there seems to be something you don't know.”

“Yes? What?”

“Kemp saw Cobbett at the Jupe Street hall. He appears to have been the last man to have seen him alive,” said Grice, quietly. “The back door of the hall near East Wharf was opened with a key – your own observation, I gather from Chumley. Kemp was seen in the vicinity, a short while before you discovered Cobbett. The two men who were watching the hall for you, the boxer and his second, saw Kemp, but didn't think that you would be interested in him. Even without the evidence of my own ears and eyes, I should have to question Kemp. I may even have to charge him, and the charge would be the murder of Cobbett. I came here because I wanted to find out if you had any real evidence that I'm wrong.”

 

 

“No,” said Rollison, after a long pause, “I've nothing tangible. All the same, I hope you won't charge him yet. I think he's been cleverly framed; they've worked faster than I realised. You can at least hold your hand until Straker has been interrogated. Is Kemp restive?”

“Very!”

“I'll see him,” said Rollison. “I think I can keep him quiet. Don't act too soon, Bill.”

“I can see the day out,” said Grice, slowly.

“I'm sure you won't regret it. Jolly, ring up Miss Crayne, find out if she's still at home, and ask her to come here at once. If she isn't in, find out where she is. Have you traced Gregson and the man who might be Keller yet?” he asked Grice.

“No.”

“Thinking back a little, the man whom we've never been able to find is the shadowy individual who first called himself Keller, the doer of evil deeds with a praiseworthy motive, the man who committed crimes for the sake of goodness. But he killed O'Hara, and killed Cobbett. You've still got the man Harris under charge, haven't you?”

“Yes.”

“Go hard at him. He might know who Keller is. Have his friend, Spike Adams, questioned on the same lines. Trail the foreman, Owen. Get hold of the drivers of Straker's lorries and have a go at them. The presumption is that the whisky is brought to East Wharf and other wharves, and a little at a time is distributed from there, probably to a lot of warehouses. It's obviously distributed to clubs and pubs quickly, so there is never a hoard in any one place at any one time. That's an essential part of the whole scheme, you know. The police wouldn't be likely to worry about a few dozen bottles at a time. Will you get busy?” He spoke appealingly.

“When I've decided what's worth doing,” Grice promised. “I'm not convinced that you're right.”

Grice left, in a subdued mood.

Jolly had hardly reported to Rollison that Isobel was on the way, before she arrived. She was in uniform and hatless.

“Kemp is safe for the time being,” Rollison told her. “He'll stay safe only if you and I can persuade him to stay at Cannon Row police station for the rest of the day.”

“Are you going to let him down
again
?”
demanded Isobel.

“Oh, my sainted aunt!” moaned Rollison. “Isobel, love, I'm on his side. I tell you the only safe place for him is in the police station.”

He convinced her at length, and soon they were in the little room at Cannon Row, where detained persons were held. Any solicitor could get them out, unless they were held under charge. Kemp was not sullen but he was bitter, and he appeared to have little time for Rollison, until Isobel persuaded him that Rollison was working for his best interests.

Rollison said: “You could go free, but more likely the police would charge you with some offence, so as to hold you. If they let you go, you'll be in greater danger than ever. And this is no time for saying that you can stand on your own two feet. You might get a satisfying sop to your vanity and a fillip to your physical courage, but you're the key to the problem. We can't solve it without you, so we need you aliReluctantly, Kemp agreed.

“I'm sure you won't regret it,” enthused Rollison. “Now, think as you have never thought before, what do you know of Arthur Straker, at your first church?”

“He was the only man who ever gave me the slightest support,” said Kemp. “What do
you
know about him?”

“Nothing,” said Rollison, promptly. “I'm just checking that you think he's reliable.”

“I am
quite
sure,” insisted Kemp.

“Good. Do you know who telephoned asking you to go to the club this morning?”

“It was the man who calls himself Gregson,” said Kemp. “I had been there before – I once tried to get the club closed down, but I couldn't convince the police that it was necessary. While I was there, I saw a number of people taken ill after drinking whisky. Gregson used to tell me that he did his best to make sure he got hold of quality stuff only, and he rang up this morning and said he thought I would be interested to know that he had discovered how the poison reached him. So I went. When I got there, he asked me whether I made a profit out of helping to distribute it, and then when the police arrived I think he
knew
you were outside – he made the conversation sound pretty incriminating. If the police hadn't been so arbitrary—”

Rollison smiled.

“You aren't the world's most tactful suspect, you know! Unbend now. Unbend as far as you know how. The police don't want to see an innocent man convicted.” Without waiting for Kemp to respond, he went on: “One other thing. Did young Cobbett – the crane driver – come to see you an hour or so before he was killed?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“He seemed badly upset,” said Kemp. “Very remorseful about the accident. I told him not to worry. As a matter of fact, Rollison, I think you were wrong about him.”

“Make sure you tell the police that. Even if you appear to be incriminating yourself, tell them everything. After all,” he added, “you don't want to break Isobel's heart!”

Then he left Kemp and Isobel together.

He did not think it would be long before he knew the whole truth, and at the back of his mind there was an exasperating suspicion that he had missed something so obvious that when eventually he discovered what it was, he would be annoyed with his own blindness.

He was most concerned with Cobbett's murder. That had been a clever trick, which could still put Kemp in the dock on a capital charge. Doubtless Cobbett had been sent to apologise, to allay the curate's suspicions; then had been killed near a place where Kemp would be the obvious suspect.

“And who told Cobbett?” Rollison asked himself. “Owen?” Owen had made no move during the day to suggest that he was involved. The East End was like a city of the dead. There was a furtive, hang-dog look about most of the people whom he did see, and there were more policemen in plainclothes about than was usual.

Passing Craik's shop, he saw the little man through the open doorway – the broken panel of the door had been replaced. Craik called after him timidly, and he turned, to see the shopkeeper standing on the doorstep rubbing his hands.

“I don't like worrying you, sir,” said Craik, his lips quivering. “But – but
is
it true that Mr. Kemp has been arrested?”

“No,” said Rollison, emphatically.

“Oh, it isn't! Oh, I
am
glad!” exclaimed Craik. “I was afraid it was true, this is such a wicked affair, sir. It – it seems to affect all the best-meaning people. He hasn't been seen since this morning.”

“He doesn't have to stay here all the time,” observed Rollison, annoyed by this leakage of information. “Who told you anything about it?”

“One of my customers,” said Craik.

“Which one?” demanded Rollison.

Craik could not be sure. The shop had been crowded in the morning, and the subject had cropped up in general conversation. He would not name any individual, for fear of doing injustice. Pressed, he admitted that he had been so rushed that he had not really noticed who had been in the shop. He remembered old Mrs. Whiting, because she had appeared to think that Kemp might be guilty of some crime.

“I soon put her in
her
place,” said Craik, virtuously.

“And so you should,” said Rollison. “Has the story of Kemp's arrest got around much do you know?”

“I'm sure I couldn't say,” Craik answered. “I know I haven't said anything!”

Rollison, feeling sceptical of these protestations, went to 49, Little Lane. Whiting was out, but his wife was there, and two of Ebbutt's men were on the other side of the street. Mrs. Whiting, looked troubled, asked Rollison in and then turned on her mother, who came tottering into the front parlour.

“There's no need for you, Ma!”

“I got my rights, ain't I?” demanded the old woman. “What's worrying you, now,” she shot a venomous glance at Rollison.

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?”