The Toff And The Curate

“That’s good work,” said Rollison. “Where is it?”

“The Daisy Club, in Pond Street,” answered Jolly. “I saw him going in and a little questioning of a cleaner elicited the fact that the man whom we know as Keller is also a frequenter of the club. Another thing, sir—a bottle of the—er—firewater was delivered by special messenger this morning.”

“A bottle?” asked Rollison. “Who on earth—” and then he chuckled. “Oh, yes, I asked one of the girls at the office to buy me a bottle. Any note to say which club it came from?”

“There is a sealed note accompanying it,” said Jolly.

“Open it, will you?” said Rollison.

After a pause, Jolly spoke again.

“It is signed: ‘Mabel Bundy, Sergeant,’ sir, and” — there was the slightest unsteadiness in Jolly’s voice— “it says that the bottle was bought at the Daisy Club, as requested.”

“Have you tried it?” asked Rollison.

“I did venture to taste it, sir. I think it is exactly the same brand as that which you brought from Craik’s shop.”

“So all things point to the Daisy Club,” said Rollison, with satisfaction. “Telephone my office, thank Sergeant Bundy for me, then come along to the Daisy Club.”

“Very good, sir,” said Jolly.

Rollison walked to Whitechapel Tube Station.

There was a faint doubt in his mind for, just as everything had once pointed to The Docker and the church halls, it seemed that they were now pointing to the Daisy Club. But this time there seemed to have been no effort on anyone’s part to make him pay attention to the place. The purchase of a bottle of the whisky from the club by Sergeant Mabel Bundy was quite unconnected with Jolly’s discovery and appeared to have been a lucky stroke.

Pond Street was a dingy thoroughfare off Shaftesbury Avenue. ‘The Daisy Club, Secretary F. Legge’, was written on a varnished board nailed to the porch at the foot of a flight of narrow stairs which were fitted with hair-carpet. Jolly was at the far end of the street and Rollison walked to meet him.

It was then that he received the biggest shock he had yet had in Vaffaire Kemp.

In the doorway of a shop, out of sight until he passed it, two plainclothes men were standing. There was nothing unusual in seeing Yard men in Pond Street but these were the two men whom, not long before, he had seen outside Kemp’s hall.

“What is it, sir?” asked Jolly, as he drew up.

“Kemp’s shadows. They might have been given a new assignment,” said Rollison, “but I doubt it.”

They walked past the two Yard men towards the Club, Rollison on edge in case Kemp was upstairs.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The Curate At The Daisy Club

No one was on the first floor landing.

Rollison reached it just ahead of Jolly. He looked at three doors facing him and another flight of stairs. He listened at each of the doors but heard nothing. Jolly, who had gone ahead, stood at the top of the next flight, beckoning. As Rollison reached him, he heard voices.

One was quite unmistakable.

“You know very well I don’t!” growled Ronald Kemp.

He was speaking in one of two rooms leading from the landing. The words ‘Daisy Club’ were written on the door and there was no other notice. The closed door looked flimsy. Rollison stepped closer, standing on one side with Jolly on the other.

The voice of Gregson came next and Rollison caught Jolly’s eye. He hated the implications in Kemp’s visit but forced himself to listen.

“Please yourself,” said Gregson. “You may—”

Footsteps sounded from downstairs. Rollison heard them and turned abruptly—and, on the lower landing, he saw the peeling face of Superintendent Grice. He was taken so much by surprise that he missed Gregson’s next words but the shrill ringing of a telephone bell cut them short.

Grice reached the landing.

Gregson said something in a harsh voice; then there was silence in the room.

“Hallo, Rolly!” said Grice with remarkable heartiness, “I wondered if you’d be here!” He stepped forward and rapped on the door. There was no response—just utter silence.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Rollison whispered. “They’ve been warned.”

The door opened abruptly and Gregson stood on the threshold. Behind him was Kemp; ‘Keller,’ by the window was a third man who held an automatic pistol. ‘Keller’s’ right hand was in his pocket.

“I shouldn’t use those guns,” said Grice, mildly.

Gregson swung round on Kemp, his face livid. The curate was staring, as if taken completely unawares.

“You double-crossing swine, you’ve brought the police. Why, I’d like to cut your throat!”

“That’s enough,” said Grice.