Kemp slid from the table and held out his hand.
“I will, Billy. It isn’t easy to say thanks.” His one open eye was smiling and he seemed to have become much more mature in the past few hours. “I’m afraid I owe you an apology. I once thought you knew something about the damage to the hall. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t menchon it,” said Billy, bluffly. “Only my little joke, I—” he caught Rollison’s eye and went on hastily: “I just fought I’d pull your leg, that was all. Never guessed you packed a punch like that. All okey-doke, then?”
“All okey-doke,” affirmed Kemp.
“Gawd save the King!” gasped the bald-headed man. “Who’d ‘a believed it?”
* * *
Rollison left the big hall just after eleven o’clock. It was not quite dark. Two of Ebbutt’s men were standing outside, taking no chances. Kemp had been put to bed with a cold compress over a swollen eye. He had said nothing about Rollison’s part in fixing the contest but obviously he knew.
Rollison smiled, as he remembered the curate’s last words. “I suppose you
“I’ll try to see him tonight,” Rollison had promised.
He was not followed from the hall but was wary as he walked to the main road and then to the headquarters of AZ Division. He had telephoned the flat but Jolly had not returned and his curiosity about his man’s activities was at fever heat. He showed no sign of that when, at half-past eleven, he was ushered in to Chumley’s office. The Inspector looked relieved to see him.
“I was afraid you were going to play one of your tricks, Rollison. Sit down—and have a cigarette? If you’d like a drink—”
“No thanks,” said Rollison. “Tricks?” He looked aggrieved. “Now would I ever try to put anything across a policeman?”
Chumley chuckled.
“As a matter of fact, I think you would! What
“I thought you were sure it was Craik,” said Rollison.
“We
CHAPTER NINE
“Why did you let him go?” asked Rollison.
“Lack of evidence,” said Chumley.
“I thought his knife was used.”
“It was—but it had been stolen. We caught the man who stole it,” Chumley added. “We heard a whisper and went to see him. He denied it but broke down under questioning. He told us that you had been talking to him— in fact, even allowing for exaggeration, what he said you said is enough to make us reprimand you!”
Rollison sat on the corner of the inspector’s desk and lit a cigarette.
“Spike Adams or Harris?” he asked.
“Harris.”
“And he admits having picked Craik’s pocket?”
“Yes.”
“Well, well! He wasn’t at the scene of the murder, was he?”
“No,” said Chumley, regretfully. “We can’t get him for that. He tells a fantastic story of being told that someone else owned the knife, which Craik had stolen—I don’t believe a word of it but I’ve got to believe the confession and, without evidence that Craik used the knife,
“I’ve got nothing on which to hold him.”
Rollison smiled drily.
“A nice piece of fandoogling,” said Rollison. “I wondered why you were so careful to let Bray of the Yard detain him and only finish off yourself. You didn’t want to come a cropper, did you? The Yard did the dirty work, you handed Craik over to them.”
Chumley grinned, smugly.
“You weren’t satisfied that it was Craik even then?” asked Rollison.
“I was not.” Chumley was surprisingly emphatic. “I think I know this Division. I’ve been here for fifteen years and Joe Craik is one of the reliables. He might have punched O’Hara’s head but he wouldn’t use a knife. Young Bray was cocky, so I let him have his head. I thought it might give me a chance to do some quick uncovering but I’ve drawn a blank.”
“Except that you’ve been tipped off about the knife,” said Rollison. “Who told you?”
“A man who gave his name as Keller,” said Chumley and sat back, as if prepared to gloat over his
