“I won’t come with you,” said Rollison, “but I’ll join you in about an hour’s time. Which hall is it?”
“In Jupe Street. Oughtn’t you to have a guide?”
Rollison chuckled. “I can find my way about! You get back, Kemp, and stop thinking that Craik is half-way to the gallows!”
He ushered the young parson out and, when the door closed, turned to see Jolly approaching from his bedroom where, doubtless, he had been listening.
“I’ve laid out your clothes, sir,” said Jolly. “A flannel suit will be all right, won’t it?”
“Yes, thanks. What do you make of him?”
T think he is in a somewhat chastened mood now, sir, and it should be beneficial,” said Jolly. “It is rather an intriguing story, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Do you know Craik?”
“I seem to have heard the name,” said Jolly. “I think he owns a small general store near St. Guy’s.”
“We’ll know soon,” said Rollison. “Try to get Grice on the “phone, will you? If he’s not at the Yard, try his home. Oh—find out first who arrested Craik.”
“Very good, sir,” said Jolly.
Superintendent Grice of Scotland Yard was neither at the Yard nor at his home—he was away for a few days, on a well-earned holiday. Det Sergeant Bray of the Yard had detained Craik and Inspector Chumley—an easy-going, genial individual from the AZ Division—had charged him.
“A curious mixture,” Rollison reflected, “Bray from the Yard doing work in the Division and handing it over to Chumley. Chumley’s usually all right, although he’s a bit of a smiler. I’ll look in and see him after I’ve been to Jupe Street.”
“Will you want me, sir?” inquired Jolly.
“Come, if you feel like it,” said Rollison, “but I don’t expect much tonight.”
They set out together and were lucky in finding a taxi in Piccadilly with a driver who put himself at their disposal for the night.
“I ‘ope that’s long enough, sir,” he said out of the darkness. “If it isn’t, I’ll pay you overtime,” promised Rollison and was rewarded by gusty laughter and the comforting knowledge that he had put the man in a good humour.
Jolly opened the windows to admit a cool, welcome breeze. “I wonder how the bellicose curate is getting on?” said Rollison,
“I did rather, sir, yes.”
“If you hadn’t, you wouldn’t have admitted him,” said Rollison. “But I doubt whether you could have kept him out. That young man is militant-minded and he seems to be getting a raw deal.”
“I expect he has invited it,” murmured Jolly, primly. “I can’t imagine the people near the docks taking kindly to being driven by a parson.”
“No. And he would try to drive,” mused Rollison. The journey took a little more than half an hour. On the last lap, Jolly had to direct the driver to Jupe Street, a narrow thoroughfare leading off Whitechapel Road. The Mission Hall was at the far end. They passed row upon row of mean houses and some bare patches and did not see any light until the taxi stopped. Then a streak of light from an open door shone right across an alleyway.
“Tell ‘em to put that light aht,” growled the driver. Rollison and Jolly hurried down the alley to the door and, as they drew nearer, they caught sight of Kemp standing just inside the room.
Jolly stood outside the door as Rollison went in.
Kemp must have heard him but did not turn round.
He was standing quite still, his chin thrust forward and his face set. He was looking at the wreckage of chairs and forms and benches, curtains and pictures. The hall was not a large one and at the far end was a stage with doors on either side; they were open and inside both rooms Rollison saw further upheaval. Whoever had been here had worked with frenzied malice. Most of the chairs were broken, the side walls had been daubed with white and brown paint and, on the wall behind the stage, written in badly-formed letters in red paint, were the words:
CHAPTER TWO
“Who is that?” asked Kemp, without looking round. “Rollison,” said Rollison. “Oh.” The younger man turned slowly and looked into the Toff’s face. His own held a curiously drawn expression—as if the past hour had put years on to his life. “Someone doesn’t like me,” he said, harshly. “That can cut both ways,” said Rollison, lightly.
He wanted to see how the other would react and watched him carefully. After a long pause, during which his face was quite blank except for the glitter in his eyes, Kemp’s lips began to curve.
“You’re a good cure for depression,” he said, in a lighter voice. I was to have met two parishioners here. Instead, the door was open and, when I switched on the light, this is what I found. They’ve made a thorough job, haven’t they?”
“Not bad,” admitted Rollison, “but there isn’t much that can’t be repaired, as far as I can see, so perhaps they want to keep you busy. Who were the two people whom you expected to be waiting for you?”
“A Mr and Mrs Whiting,” Kemp said, absently. “Probably they got scared and I can’t blame them. I shouldn’t imagine I’m going to have many friends in the near future!” The edge was back in his voice as he proffered cigarettes. Rollison took one.
