Isobel reassured him and seemed eager to demonstrate that she could still serve two cups of tea to another woman’s one. Rollison refused a cup and left with Kemp. Rollison glanced round, after going a few yards, and saw Isobel staring after them, a cup of tea in her hand. Rollison smothered a grin. At the Jupe Street hall he gave Kemp an outline of his suspicions but he did not mention Craik’s part in helping him to form them, nor did he go into details. He finished:
“If I’m right, then the stuff is being stored somewhere near.”
“Do you think one of the church halls is being used?” said Kemp, slowly.
“It wouldn’t surprise me.”
“We’ve three that haven’t been used for some lime. Do you want to search them?”
“Not yet,” decided Rollison. “I think it had better wait—I’ll have someone keep an eye on them, though. You don’t let them out, do you?”
“No. They’re only wooden huts. Mr Cartwright believed in getting out among the people, he thought it easier than trying to persuade them to walk as far as St Guy’s.”
“There isn’t much wrong with Cartwright’s reasoning,” said Rollison.
“It would just about finish him if he learned about this,” said Kemp, grimly.
Rollison looked his amazement.
“Finish Cartwright? Not on your life! He’d want to get out of bed and be after them with an axe!”
Kemp looked startled.
“Perhaps you’re right. I—” he stopped abruptly with his mouth parted and his puffy eye opened. Rollison watched him, not surprised at the sudden change and knowing that sooner or later one possibility would occur to Kemp.
“Look here!” exclaimed the curate, “was that accident with the crane
“Or, I think,” answered Rollison. “They know that they haven’t a chance of driving you out and they’re getting desperate. Accidents will happen,” he repeated, ironically. “They won’t want to work up police interest by straightforward murder. The police didn’t go so wild over the murder of O’Hara as they would over the Rev Ronald Kemp. Watch your step—literally.”
Kemp began to rub his hands together slowly and his good eye began to glisten.
Rollison made a note of the sites of the halls and then went round to Bill’s gymnasium, which he found packed, and where he was greeted with great affability. Soon after he arrived, six men departed with instructions to watch the three halls in couples, from a safe distance, and to report any visits by night or day. Then Rollison mentioned, casually, that he had been served with some pretty potent whisky earlier in the evening.
“There’s some raw stuff about,” declared Bill Ebbutt. “You should ‘ave stayed thirsty until you arrived ‘ere, Mr Ar—I don’t sell poison.” He grinned as well as he could. His face was a mass of bruises, black and blue and purple, and he was obviously in great discomfort. “How’s the Rev?”
“A black eye apart, he’s all right.”
“Bless ‘is heart! Will you ‘ave a drink?” asked Ebbutt
“No, thanks, that one was enough for tonight!” Rollison shuddered, realistically. “Is much hooch sold?”
“There’s been one or two fellers in pitchin’ the tale—you know ‘ow it goes. They’ve got ‘old of a few dozen bottles orf someone who’s gone bankrupt—but if you bought the stuff, you’d soon go broke all right! The samples is all right, sunnines, sunnines they gives you a spot’ve the real poison.”
“Can you remember any of the salesmen?”
Bill Ebbutt began to toy with his fleshy jowl. In a very sober voice, he answered:
“Maybe I could. Are you on to sunnink?”
“I might be but I don’t want your boys to know about it.”
“S’very thoughtful of yer,” said Ebbutt. “Very thoughtful indeed. Bootleg liquor, is it? It could be big.” He closed his eyes in an effort to recall who had tried to sell him the stuff and finally opened them and said hurriedly:
'One was a little Irish feller, a proper Kelly. I dunno his name. The other was one o’ these eddicated types, all smiles. I soon sent ‘im off wiv’ a flea in ‘is ear. Tell yer what, Mr Ar—if anyone else comes peddling it, I’ll buy a dozen an’ see what I can find out.”
“Good idea, Bill!” said Rollison. “This educated fellow—what was he like?”
“Tall-as-you-are-dark-suit-good-looker-clean-shaved-round-erbaht-thirty-five. That do yer, Mr Ar?”
“Wonderful!” said Rollison. “You’ve described the man I have in mind. Have you seen him about lately?”
“Nope.”
“Will you find out if he’s been to any of the other pubs?”
“Yep. If they’ve bought the stuff, they won’t talk—if they ‘aven’t, they’ll tell me.”
The description of ‘Keller’s’ educated companion clinched one thing; the gang was peddling illicit whisky. From the taste of Craik’s sample, Rollison thought it was probably made from illicit stills. There was a great deal of similar stuff on sale, especially at the flashier clubs, and members of the armed services bought more of it than anyone else.
“I think it’s time I saw the Yard,” Rollison decided, standing on a corner and watching the trams pass by, noisy yet ghostly with their faint lights. There were very few cars or other vehicles, except an occasional bus. He strolled towards Whitechapel Station and, as he neared it, a taxi began to move from the curb.
