likely but I have all sorts of queer friends. I’d say to him: “Bill”—or Percy or whatever his name happened to be— “this is Harry Keller. He employed Spike Adams and Tom Harris to beat up the Rev Ronald Kemp. He employed others to wreck a mission hall and do some hundreds of pounds worth of damage. He stole the knife belonging to a man named Craik and killed a third party with the said Craik’s knife.'“
The atmosphere had grown noticeably more tense while a movement from the drawing-room made him glance at the man with the cultured voice who was pushing past Jolly. He held a gun.
But no one spoke.
“Shall I go on?” Rollison asked. “'Having committed murder,' I would add, 'Keller worried because a man named Whiting knew about the stolen knife, so he visited Whiting and uttered threats and menaced the lives of Whiting’s children. After that, he heard from Spike Adams or Tom Harris that I was a friend of Kemp, so he came here, burglariously entered my flat, threatened my valet with a gun and uttered more menaces.' Then,” continued Rollison, smiling faintly, “I would ask him how many years in gaol you’d be likely lo get.”
Keller spoke in a thin voice. “You don’t know what you’ve done, Rollison.”
“Oh, but I do,” said Rollison. “I’ve frightened you and your friend. Queer thing, fear. I’ve made a study of it.”
“Once and for all, Rollison, I’m telling you to stick to your own back yard!”
“But Whitechapel
Jolly answered with hardly a pause, as if he had been expecting the question and Keller stiffened.
“At four o’clock, sir. I think he’s a little late.”
“Grice is on holiday!” Keller growled.
“He was—but he would make any sacrifice in a good cause,” said Rollison, as if gratified. “When I asked him to come back, he promised to start right away. Of course he’ll be alone, so you might prefer to stay. One Superintendent of Scotland Yard won’t make much difference to you. Besides, you are above the police.”
“I know what I’m about,” rasped Keller.
“That’s splendid,” declared Rollison.
“If you don’t—”
“Oh, go away!” snapped Rollison, losing patience. “You and your empty threats—what do you expect to gain? You’ve already lined up half of Whitechapel behind Kemp. Before tonight they hadn’t much time for him, now they’re on his side. Go away and assimilate a little common sense!” He sounded almost pettish as he turned away, passing Jolly and the second man and, pushing the latter roughly to one side, he strode into the drawing-room and picked up the telephone.
The success of the trick he had planned depended upon Jolly—who dodged back into the drawing-room and slammed the door. Rollison dropped the telephone and jumped to the door, putting his full weight against it as Jolly turned the key. Three heavy thuds shook it; then the men outside ceased trying to break it down.
Rollison and Jolly stood either side of the door so that, if Keller or his man fired into it, they would be out of harm’s way.
Rollison spoke in a loud voice.
“Nicely done, Jolly!”
“Thank you, sir,” said Jolly, soberly.
“I hope Grice doesn’t run into them,” Rollison went on, sounding anxious. “He’s an impetuous beggar and might start a riot. I’d better ring for someone else from the Yard,” he added. He walked heavily round the room then lifted the telephone and banged the receiver up and down several times.
The hall door slammed.
Rollison grinned. “That might be a pretty trick to make us show ourselves again, we’ll stay where we are . . . Hallo, is that Scotland Yard? . . . Rollison speaking, give me Inspector Mason, please.” After a pause, he went on: “Yes, Sergeant Hamilton will do . . . hallo, Hamilton? Send a couple of your liveliest men round to the flat, will you? I’m locked in my own drawing-room with two homicidal maniacs in the hall, threatening to . . . yes, of course I’m serious!”
The startled sergeant promised that he would send men immediately and Rollison replaced the receiver.
The flat was on the first floor and it would be possible to climb out of the window and surprise Keller from the rear. But he had no weapon and had a healthy respect for the other’s gun. Even if he only tried to follow them, it was so dark that they would probably shake him off. It would be best to stay where he was, confident that the flat would be clear of the intruders by the time the police arrived.
He and Jolly conversed in whispers but that soon palled. They heard nothing for five minutes, then a car drew up outside and heavy footsteps came thumping on the stairs. Not until the police were outside the flat did Rollison unlock the drawing-room door and let them in.
Sergeant Hamilton, tall, fair and brisk, hoped Rollison had not been pulling his leg.
“I have not!” Rollison assured him, fervently, “I expected the men to try to break the door down but they heard me telephoning you and decided not to wait.”
“Who were they?” demanded Hamilton.
“I haven’t the faintest idea,” said Rollison.
Afterwards, when the police had gone and as dawn was breaking, he told Jolly that he did not propose to mention Keller’s name to the police until he knew more about the man. For one thing, Keller’s certainty that he was in no danger from the police was a remarkable thing. For another, he wanted to feel the pulse of the East End before he stirred up police action. He had been perfectly serious when he had told Kemp that it would be better to fight on his own for the time being—the masses of the district would rally round him when it was seen that he was
