“What really took you to Whitechapel in the first place?” asked Grice.
“Kemp! Just Kemp! Nothing but Kemp! He was getting a raw deal and he’s still in danger, perhaps deadlier than before. So I’m still interested.” Rollison spoke quietly but emphatically. “I think he’s stumbled across a whisky-racket but I know nothing beyond that and I’m not going to theorise for Chumley, you, or the AC himself. The truth is,” went on Rollison, warming up, “that as soon as the word ‘whisky’ was mentioned Chumley pricked up his ears and, before I could turn round, you’d cut short your holiday. Presumably, you were working on it before, decided you could take a holiday but came haring back as soon as you knew that trouble had broken out about it.”
Grice’s manner relaxed.
“You’re pretty well on the mark, Rolly. But the thing I find it hard to believe and which Chumley refuses to accept is that you went down to Whitechapel on Kemp’s behalf alone. Was it partly because you’d been working on the case elsewhere and found a lead.”
“It was not. Where do you imagine I would have started?”
“I wouldn’t try to guess,” said Grice.
“This last day or two I’ve guessed that there is a lot of hooch being distributed throughout the West End,” said Rollison. “Is there?”
Grice leaned forward and spoke with unexpected warmth.
“There is, and it’s not ordinary hooch. Much of it is poison. We’ve had complaints from our own service authorities, from the Americans and from several of the Allied Governments— officers and men in London on leave have drunk the stuff and made themselves ill. There have been two fatalities due to acute alcoholic poisoning. The deaths were directly attributable to the whisky. Do you mean to tell me that you didn’t know?”
“Of course. I wouldn’t have been working overtime if I had. Do you mind if I use your telephone?” Grice looked puzzled but shook his head and Rollison put a call through to his office. In a few seconds, a weary Bimbleton answered him.
“Bimble, old chap,” said Rollison, “have you heard about complaints in high places of some of our chaps suffering severely from drinking bad whisky in the West End?”
“Yeh,” said Bimbleton and then articulated more clearly:
“Why, yes, Rollison. I’m sorry. I was just eating a sandwich.”
“Who is handling it?” asked Rollison. “The drink, not the sandwich.”
“Cracknell,” Bimbleton said.
“Is he on duty, do you know?”
“No, he’s left I think—no, wait a minute! [ saw him coming in half an hour ago.”
“Put me through to him, will you?” asked Rollison and sat back, beaming at Grice, who looked a little less mystified. Soon, a crisp voice sounded in Rollison’s ear and Rollison introduced himself with some circumspection.
“Yes, Rollison,” said Cracknell, who carried much weight at Whitehall. “. . . What’s that? . . . Yes, it is quite true . . . Are you sure?”
“I’m quite sure, sir,” Rollison assured him. “I think, with a little luck, we could see the end of it inside a week. The difficulty is that I’m so tied to the office.”
“This isn’t some pet scheme of your own for which you want leave, is it?” demanded Cracknell, suspiciously.
“I’m in the office of Superintendent Grice, of Scotland Yard,” Rollison told him. “He asked me to see him about this very business.”
“I’ll do what I can to arrange for you to be assigned to it,” Cracknell promised.
“Thanks very much,” said the Toff, warmly. “I take it that it is regarded seriously?”
“If it’s a matter of urgency, I shouldn’t waste any time,” said Rollison.
“You can consider yourself assigned to it,” said Cracknell and rang off; the last Rollison heard from him was the beginning of an explosive laugh.
As Rollison replaced the receiver, Grice said: “One day, you’ll wheedle yourself into active service again, I can see it coming. Then what will we poor flatfoots do at Scotland Yard?”
“Wheedle me back!” replied Rollison. “Grice, you couldn’t have done me a better service and Jolly will probably send you a congratulatory telegram! I am now working on this job in an official capacity and, while I am fully prepared to co-operate with the police, I must reserve the right to act as I think best in the interests of men and women of the services who, in their all-too-brief spells of leave, are being raddled with a fire-water sold under the name of whisky, and—”
“That’s enough!” cried Grice. “Well, exactly how much do you know?”
Rollison passed on the whole story. Grice made notes on a pad and, when Rollison had finished, they eyed each other thoughtfully. It was Grice who broke the silence.
“Do you think it would be wrong to try to force the case in Whitechapel just yet?”
“Yes. Don’t you?”
“Probably,” admitted Grice, “although it can’t be left too long. We’ll have to get Gregson and the man who calls himself ‘Keller’ as soon as we can. Chumley has descriptions of them and is already hard at work.”
