The Toff And The Curate

“Even you might be wrong,” said Chumley, sarcastically.

But there was nothing hidden in the hall nor beneath it; there was nothing to indicate that it had been used as a storage place for whisky or other contraband. The back door had not been forced; Cobbett’s murderers had used a key. There were no fingerprints, nothing that might serve as a clue and Billy the Bull could give no reliable description of the men he had seen.

Chumley will try the other places now, thought Rollison, and one was bound to yield results. He stayed close to Chumley all the evening as they went from hall to hall. Kemp joined them, giving permission for the search freely. No one had the chance to tell Rollison of Craik’s advice to Cobbett.

Nor did Kemp talk of his visitor.

There was nothing at the first hall.

By the time they reached the second Craik, Whiting and several other members of St Guy’s had arrived with a crowd of sightseers, some of whom jeered and some looked pale and worried. The comb-out of the East End was proceeding fast; suspects were being detained and questioned.

Rollison was prepared to find the store of whisky at the hall and was wondering what his best course would be afterwards but nothing was found.

Kemp was relieved. Chumley was obviously disappointed. Craik was smiling, his lips quivering like a rabbit’s; that might also have been with relief.

Chumley turned away from a sergeant and said audibly:

“Someone’s tipped them off, that’s what’s happened.”

He looked meaningly towards Rollison who ignored him and walked off with Kemp. As they neared Jupe Street, Kemp asked:

“Do you think they were warned, Rollison?”

“Possibly,” conceded Rollison, “but if there were stores, of the whisky in any of the halls earlier today, or even yesterday, I don’t think I hey could have been moved without a trace. There’s something I’ve missed,” he went on. “It’s something fairly obvious and it concerns you. Be more careful than ever.”

“I suppose you couldn’t be wrong in thinking—”

“Cobbett was killed because he might have talked too freely—he was badly scared last night,” said Rollison. “O’Hara was killed for the same reason. You might be next on the list.”

“But what could I talk about?”

“Presumably nothing, yet. It’s something you might come across,” said Rollison. He arranged for Grice to send two Scotland Yard men to watch Kemp as unobtrusively as possible then returned to Gresham Terrace where Jolly found him, an hour later, in a mood not far removed from dejection. As the valet entered, Rollison looked up.

“Any luck?” he demanded.

“Not yet, sir,” began Jolly, “I . . .”

“I’ve been making you waste your time and I’ve wasted my own,” Rollison said and he went into some detail. “I thought I had one thing sewn up and when the bag was opened there wasn’t even a rabbit inside. We’re being played for suckers, Jolly!”

“I can’t believe that, sir.”

“I can and do,” said Rollison. “I’ve reached the point where I think Kemp might be being persecuted simply to distract attention from the real purpose. Note how carefully everything has been covered up. Keller—and a shadowy individual who might be Keller. Gregson taking orders one night, giving them the next. The Docker deliberately thrust into our faces—and nothing gained from the pub.”

“As you expected,” murmured Jolly.

“Yes but I did expect something from the halls.”

Jolly said, quietly: “O’Hara and Cobbett were murdered, sir. I hardly think anyone would go to the lengths of murder in order to throw out a smokescreen, if I may use the allegory. Both of those men could have betrayed the leaders. That is certain.”

“Ye-es. Find their murderers, find the— Jolly!”

“Yes, sir?”

“Did I make a mistake in confiding in that foreman, Owen? Who else knew that I suspected Cobbett?”

Jolly eyed him steadily, seemed about to speak and then changed his mind and suggested that he should make some coffee.

“You stay where you are,” said Rollison. “What were you going to say?”

“I don’t really think—” began Jolly.

“Out with it,” insisted Rollison. “I don’t want concern for my feelings. If I’ve missed an obvious possibility, tell me. I’m beginning to think I have.”

“I don’t think so, sir,” said Jolly, looking troubled, in fact, I feel hardly justified in mentioning what sprang to my mind but, since you insist, I will tell you. You might have been wrong in confiding in Owen but he was not the only man whom you told of your suspicions of Cobbett.”

“Now, come! Chumley may be feeling sour and might have tumbled to it, but—”

“I’m not thinking of the police, sir,” said Jolly, still ill-at-ease, “and I’m not thinking seriously of Mr Kemp but you did let him know that you considered last night’s accident might have been an attempt to murder him, didn’t you? And, if the mission halls were being used but were emptied in a hurry, it means that there was a leakage of information.”