The Toff And The Curate

“The fact remains that we have a detailed story about practically everything,” said Grice. “We know how the whisky was stored, how it was distributed and where it was made. Straker is in it up to the hilt and so are the others whom we’ve caught—and all of them implicate Kemp. What is more, Straker says that Cobbett discovered that Kemp was involved and went to blackmail him.”

“Oh,” said Rollison, again. “Cunning on the part of Cobbett—a public conversation with Craik, so as to put himself in a good light, then a little gentle blackmail. There’s one obvious reason for all accusing fingers pointing at Kemp,” he went on. “They’re still covering someone else. There can’t be any other explanation. What are you going to do?”

“What can I do but act on the evidence?” asked Grice.

“Rolly, I just don’t believe that Ronald’s concerned in this,” said Isobel, passionately. “Can’t you do anything?”

CHAPTER TWENTY—ONE

The Malice Of Man

“I’m certainly going to do something,” said Rollison after a long pause. “Does Kemp know the latest facts?”

“Not yet.”

“When he’s told, keep him away from Straker! The malice of men is an ugly thing. Straker is going down and wants to pull everyone else with him, especially Kemp who blundered in with his crusade. When you come to think of it, that’s not been a failure.”

“Why are you standing there talking?” demanded Isobel, sharply. “How can you disprove what Straker says?”

“By finding the truth,” said Rollison. “I think we can. Don’t look so down in the mouth, my love!” He turned to Grice. “Bill, can you have a strong cordon of police flung round the Jupe Street area including East Wharf? Not one man here and there but a really large party so that, if there’s a concerted rush to break away, your chaps can stop it. By now, whoever is working down there will have heard of the trouble and won’t want to stay for long. I mean Gregson and Might-be-Keller, of course.”

“If you can give me—”

“More tangible evidence? I can’t but it stands to reason that both men will be in that neighbourhood. All the trouble has been centred round there. You’ve had the whole district combed out; it isn’t asking much, surely, to do this.”

“Can’t you be more explicit?” asked Grice.

“No,” said Rollison. “Chumley warned them of the danger, so they’re in hiding. Now they’re shouting ‘Kemp’ to sidetrack us. If we tell them where we are concentrating the next attack, they’ll get out of the area. So neither you nor anyone else should know where the next attack will be concentrated—yet.”

“Do you mean you know?” asked Grice.

“I think so. And so should you, you’ve had access to the evidence! And of course I might be wrong and I’d hate to spoil my reputation! Am I asking so much?” he added, appealingly. “You went for Straker and lo! you were rewarded.”

“All right,” said Grice and stepped to the telephone.

“Rolly . . .” began Isobel.

“Hush!” said Rollison. “It’s time for action. Talking’s over.”

“Do you really think there’s a chance?”

“We shall have your Ronald out of this spot before very long and Straker Brothers in a very much deeper one. Perhaps even the proprietors of East Wharf, too. I suppose it’s no use asking you to go and see your friends at Caterham?” he added, hopefully. “You owe them a visit and an apology.”

“I’m coming with you,” said Isobel, firmly.

“I was afraid you were. But for Kemp’s sake, do as I ask. He won’t want you a corpse and there is deep malice, not only in Straker but in the others. Kemp has completely upset their plans. He started them on the downward path and, by George, he’s seeing them drop into the River Styx itself! They hate him, as they’ve already proved, but why should they have a chance to wreak vengeance on you? Take out your mobile canteen. Go down there to the East Wharf area where you’ll get a grandstand view.

Isobel still hesitated.

“Go with Miss Crayne, Jolly,” ordered Rollison and smiled in approval when his man said: “Of course, sir,” without even looking disappointed.

Isobel and Jolly went off. Rollison looked at his watch: it was just after five o’clock.

Grice returned from the telephone.

“That’s done, he said. “I hope you know what you’re talking about.”

“So do I,” said Rollison, as they started downstairs. “I don’t think there’s much doubt, Bill. The original Keller, the good old original director of operations on the Whitechapel front—that’s the man we’re after. The imaginary Keller, doer of good deeds.”

“What do you mean?” demanded Grice.

“Obviously, sooner or later you were going to wonder whether Kemp was taking the law into his own hands,” went on Rollison. “That’s why they had him lured down to Whitechapel. It wasn’t my fault only that you suspected Kemp—they’ve been leading up to it for a long time. And their case against him will probably be pretty strong.”

“It is,” said Grice. “Straker has crossed the t’s and dotted the