There have been whisky rackets before, haven’t there?” murmured Rollison. Two or three of them—dummy companies selling good stuff at high prices. Could we be on the fringe of something similar but with hooch as its stock-in-trade?”
“It is at least a possibility, sir,” said Jolly, i have just remembered something which the man who called himself Keller said when he called last night.”
“What particular thing?” asked Rollison. “He recommended you to play around in your own back yard and made it clear that he meant the West End.” Rollison began to smile. “Jolly, we’ll have to go into formal partnership! I missed that.”
“I am quite satisfied with the present arrangement, sir, thank you,” said Jolly, primly. “I cannot see that it is of any great importance, although it might—”
“Oh, come!” exclaimed Rollison. “It might be the most important thing yet.”
“I don’t quite see—” began Jolly. “But you must see,” declared Rollison, “Keller—we’ll call him Keller—was anxious that we shouldn’t spend too much time on his beat. He doesn’t know just what we have discovered. He might even have been referring, obliquely, to the hooch. He might have been saying, in effect: 'Why spoil our little market when there’s a big one on your own doorstep?' Remember,” added Rollison, “there is the real Keller, of the established reputation. Two factions, as we know. What a triumph for our Keller if he succeeded in making us concentrate on the other man.”
“Very subtle indeed, sir,” said Jolly. “I really don’t know how you do it! What time do you expect to be back?”
“I hope, by midnight,” said Rollison.
He let Jolly go ahead, reassuring himself that neither he nor his man was being followed. He came to the conclusion that ‘Keller’ had been sincere when he had offered a forty-eight hours armistice and he went by tube to Whitechapel. When he reached the Jupe Street hall, he found it closed. He went to St Guy’s, which was half a mile away, but found it empty as well—it was used as a school during the day. He was about to go back to Jupe Street when a side door of the church opened and Craik appeared.
“Why, hallo, sir!” he said, with enforced joviality. “I didn’t expect to see you again this evening!”
“One never knows one’s luck, does one?” said the Toff, ironically. “Have you seen Mr Kemp?”
“He was here a short while ago but went out. I understand that you might find him near Last Wharf. We have a small hut near there, sir.”
Did the man look furtive? Rollison asked himself and decided that Craik’s rabbity eyes held no particular expression unless it were of guilt. His drooping lips were set in a smile.
Til look there,” promised Rollison and went off.
Craik stood watching him until he was out of sight and thus increased Rollison’s sense of misgiving. He reached East Wharf which was large and bustled with activity. A ship was being unloaded and sweating dockers were at the cranes and the pulleys, at hand-barrows and on electric trucks. The roar of engines and the loud voices of the men echoed across the water.
Rollison stood watching for a few minutes.
Many of the voices were clearly Irish; the rich brogue would have fascinated him in any case and just now was exceptionally interesting. He watched some wooden packing cases being swung ashore with two men beneath to steady and direct them to a great pile. Most of the men were stripped to the waist, or wore only singlets and trousers, and many were barefooted. One little party was singing a folk-song and the harmony was curiously affecting.
“Could there be a crate or two of hooch there, I wonder?” mused Rollison, as he turned away.
He did not know where to find the St Guy’s hut—he expected that it was one which had been erected to serve the dockers, perhaps as a canteen or a clothes depot, and was now out of use because the WVS had taken over that work. Looking about him at the sweating, singing men, he reflected that Isobel Crayne would have been horrified, only a few years before, at the very thought of spending much of her time amid such people and surroundings.
Then he saw the mobile canteen and smiled when he saw Kemp standing outside it— talking with Isobel.
“He’s no slouch,” murmured Rollison and sauntered towards them. Isobel saw him first.
“Hallo, Rolly! We were just talking about you!”
“There is a law of slander,” said Rollison. “And I’m jealous of my reputation.”
“We weren’t doing it any harm,” said Kemp.
“If you were, I would close up your other eye,” said Rollison. “Shocking, these fighting parsons, aren’t they?” he asked Isobel. “You never know whether you’re going to get a homily or a punch on the nose. Don’t let him take you away, he’ll talk for hours.”
Kemp grinned.
“This is Miss Crayne’s half-hour off!”
“Have you discovered that already?” murmured Rollison. “You’re going to quicken the pace in these parts. When is the half-hour up? Because I have much to discuss with you and—”
A stentorian voice broke across his words and made all of them look up sharply. A dozen men bellowed in warning. All were staring towards the trio while a great bale of wooden cases, enclosed in a rope-net, came swinging towards them as if out of control.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Rollison swept his right arm
