make it any the worse for you. I know what you can do—go along to Mr Kemp, the curate, and tell him how sorry you are.”
“Do you think—” Cobbett began.
Cobbett still looked miserable but nodded and obeyed.
The fat woman wearing a coloured shawl and a tattered skirt, the hem of which dragged along the pavement, had heard every word. She moved on with a great effort when Craik finished his task, sniffing and saying in an audible voice:
“If I’d have moved off soon’s the boy “ad stopped, he would’a said I was listening to ‘im, that ‘e would!” Her fleshy face was set in lines of disgust. She waddled as far as Little Lane, turned into it and eventually reached Number 49. Outside, two of Bill Ebbutt’s men called out good-humouredly: “What’s the latest, Ma?” She tossed her head at them and was admitted to the Whitings’ home by one of the children who called her Mrs Parsons. Then, she regaled the old woman at the house with everything she had heard.
Mrs Parsons was, beyond all doubt, the district’s most notorious gossip. Some said there was no malice in her and that she could no more keep information to herself than a colander could hold water. The fact that she talked, and that no confidence was safe with her, was extremely well known—as was the fact that she had one particular crony, Mrs Whiting’s mother.
She was not a stranger to Rollison, of whom she always spoke in hushed tones as “The Torf and before whom she always curtseyed, but he had not been to see her often recently for he had come to the conclusion that she developed trivial incidents so colourfully and plausibly that they became entirely different from the original.
Soon, she was on her way again and immediately afterwards Mrs Whiting’s mother came hurrying out. So two tongues started wagging. Before long, the whole district knew that Cobbett was going to see the curate and wondered why. The story of the accident was already well-known and one of the characteristics of the East End was that when anything happened to the Toff, it had no chance of being passed over; it became an item of general interest.
Rollison, unaware of the significance in the talk, walked along with the sergeant towards Scotland Yard.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Rollison was not greatly perturbed as he walked into the familiar hall of Scotland Yard, although a telephoned request would have been more normal. The fact that a sergeant had been waiting outside one entrance of the building suggested that the others had been watched, and that the Yard had been determined to see him quickly.
On the way, he had talked about the weather.
At the Yard, he asked who wanted to see him.
“Superintendent Grice, sir,” said the sergeant.
Rollison was pleasantly surprised for not only did he know Grice well but he was sure that Grice would be helpful whenever he could be. So he entered the spacious office with a smile, as Grice rose from his chair. The Superintendent was a tall, spare man whose complexion was normally very like a woman’s and whose skin was stretched tight across his face, particularly at his nose, thus emphasising its high bridge. Grice’s complexion and his large brown eyes—not unlike ‘Keller’s’—were his most noticeable features but Rollison was amazed when he saw him.
“Well, well!” he exclaimed. “The holiday-maker returned—slightly sunburned!”
Grice, his face bright red with sunburn, managed a painful grin.
“Don’t rub it in,” he said. “It’s as stiff as blazes.”
“The policeman who never grew up!” Rollison sat down and stretched out his long legs. “What’s brought you back early?”
“You,” said Grice.
“Not I—distrustful policemen elsewhere, I’m afraid.”
“Judging from a “phone call I’ve had from Chumley, he’s more than distrustful—he’s highly suspicious! You needn’t tell me that he should know better. You should have treated Chumley more leniently, Rolly.”
“He is rather fond of throwing his weight about and—”
“You could have satisfied him without getting his back up,” remonstrated Grice.
“I rather wanted his back up,” murmured Rollison.
“I expected as much,” commented Grice. “Well, where will you start?”
“I don’t start,” said Rollison, “I was badgered into coming here by a police sergeant whose expression proved that he knew he was doing the wrong thing. Whose idea was that?”
“Mine. One of Chumley’s men was here and I made him see I really meant business.”
“Good!” said Rollison. “What business? Whisky?”
“Now you’re getting interesting,” said Grice. “What do you know about the whisky-running?”
“Very little,” answered Rollison, cautiously. “I didn’t believe Gregson when he told me that he was stealing a few cases and passing them on at a profit. I think it goes deeper. Does it?”
“Now you’re asking,” Grice said.
Rollison took out his cigarette-case and lit a cigarette—Grice rarely smoked—and carefully replaced the case. After that, he contemplated Grice in silence for some minutes before saying, quietly:
“You and I needn’t beat about the bush, need we?”
