“Gregson-Keller as well as by the police. Of the two, the police are more dangerous because Kemp would have the devil of a job to live down even a temporary detention. Remember how one affected Craik! Whereas, if Kemp does know—” he broke off, standing up abruptly. “I can’t believe that he does!”
“I can hardly bring myself to believe it,” murmured Jolly. “But the evidence—”
“Yes, I know. And how clever it would be!” Rollison went to the telephone and dialled a number. “Hallo,” he said at last, “is Miss Isobel Crayne in, please? . . . Yes, I’ll hold on.” In a few moments, however, he was disappointed for Isobel was spending the night with friends in Caterham. After some trouble he got the number of the friends but, when he put a call through, he was told that there must be some mistake, Isobel had not been there.
“Curious,” commented Rollison, thoughtfully.
“What did you propose to do, sir?” asked Jolly.
“Get help from Miss Crayne,” said Rollison, cryptically.
“Do you propose to do anything about the man Owen?” Jolly appeared disinterested in Isobel’s non-appearance at Caterham.
“I think we’ll murmur a word into the ears of the police about Owen,” Rollison said. “There’s no reason why we should not be co-operative.”
Grice was not at the Yard but an alert sergeant took his message and promised to see that Owen’s record was investigated. Satisfied and apparently in a better humour, Rollison went to bed.
He woke just after seven and was in his bath before Jolly made tea. At nine o’clock he telephoned Isobel again, to be told that she was not expected home until eleven o’clock. At nine fifteen, as he was about to leave the flat, Grice telephoned and wanted to know more about Owen.
“I can’t tell you any more,” said Rollison, “except that I told him I thought Cobbett might have been paid to make that mistake with the crane. Since Cobbett was murdered, Owen becomes an obvious suspect. The moment I realised that, I telephoned you.”
“The very first moment?” asked Grice, sceptically.
“Yes,” said Rollison, “I’m getting trustful, aren’t I? Have you learned anything during the night?”
“No, there’ve been no developments here,” said Grice.
Rollison rang off and went out. He called on an old friend, the vicar of a Mayfair church, and asked him what he knew of Ronald Kemp. He did not expect to see a frown cross the parson’s good-natured face.
“What has he been doing?” asked the parson.
“Trying to put the East End to rights in a hurry,” said Rollison. “Did you hear about his fight?”
“What fight?” The vicar was amused when Rollison told him but quickly frowned again. “It isn’t out of character with Kemp, Rolly, and yet—well, I hesitate to talk too freely. I suppose I can speak in complete confidence?”
“Yes,” said Rollison and added deliberately: “Either Kemp is in serious trouble or else he’s a very dangerous young man.”
“I’ll tell you what I know,” the Vicar promised.
Kemp had been the curate at a neighbouring church. He was a promising preacher and, to all appearances, sincere in all he said. Then rumours spread, saying that he was a frequenter of nightclubs and that he did not behave as might have been expected of him. He was warned. He gave no explanation but continued his night-club visits and was eventually taken to task by his Bishop, a scholarly man who might well have little patience with the follies of youth.
“A pedant?” asked Rollison.
“And a theologian,” said the Vicar. “But I think I am justified in saying that he’s out of touch with the modern trend of Christianity. Perhaps another man would have had a greater influence on Kemp. In fact the discussion became heated and Kemp resigned his curacy immediately.”
“Offering no explanation?” asked Rollison.
“Not to my knowledge,” said the Vicar. “But there is a man who might be able to give you more information. I’m really telling you what he has told me.”
Rollison left, very thoughtful indeed, to visit a Mr Arthur Straker, a wealthy member of Kemp’s Mayfair church. The name seemed familiar but Rollison did not place it at once.
The man was an urbane, pleasant individual who received Rollison at breakfast in a luxury flat near Hyde Park. Rollison accepted a cup of coffee and explained why he had called. Straker looked intrigued.
“Is that young rebel making trouble again?”
“Rebel?” echoed Rollison.
“There’s no other word for Kemp! Had he found his right medium first, instead of coming to a wealthy parish, he might not have been one—perhaps one should have called him a misfit. It was obvious to me from the start that he would have little patience with orthodoxy. He is not yet old enough to realise that riches and sincerity can go together. Shall I say that he takes many of the passages in the scriptures too literally. ‘It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle—’ ” he paused.
“Yes, I’ve heard the quotation,” said Rollison, drily.
“Kemp read this as meaning that it was impossible for a rich man to behave as a Christian!” went on Straker. “He’s told me so to my face!” He chuckled. “I liked the young scamp, especially for that. Instead of resigning immediately, as I advised him to do, he decided to crusade amongst the vice dens of Mayfair!”
“Oh,” said Rollison, heavily.
“In fact, he got himself into disrepute by visiting unsavoury places and mixing with some of the more hectic young people,” said Straker. “I don’t know that he did himself any harm. Unfortunately, I think he was reproached
