He could not see into the room as he stood against the door, taking his automatic from his pocket. Then the door swung back a little and he saw two men by the window, one climbing out, and the other—Keller—standing still, his gun pointing towards the door.
Rollison fired through the crack.
The shot went wide but distracted Keller’s attention. Rollison pushed the door open wider and fired as the other tried to reach the window. Keller lost his grip on his gun and Grice leapt at him but by then Gregson was out of sight.
Rollison looked out of the window down into the narrow yard.
Gregson was standing in the middle of it, not certain what to do. Two plainclothes men were approaching rapidly. Gregson turned and made as if to enter the shop by the kitchen door but two more policemen entered the yard from there. Gregson looked right and left desperately but there was nothing he could do. Rollison called down to him.
“Make up your mind, Gregson!”
The vicious expression on Gregson’s face was made absurdly meaningless as the police closed on him from both sides.
Rollison turned back to the room.
Keller, who was not badly wounded, was glaring at him. His fine brown eyes were filled with malignance but he no longer looked impressive.
“Now all we need to know is why they were so anxious to frame Kemp,” Rollison said.
“Surely because he could lead to Straker,” Grice suggested. “Much more likely that Kemp actually knew something without realising its significance,” said Rollison.
He broke off outside the door of the bedroom where he had seen Craik apparently on the point of killing himself. On the bed were several books which looked like ordinary ledgers. He went closer. One was marked:
“Now what have you found?” demanded Grice.
“The thing we wanted, I think,” said Rollison, opening one of the pages. “Yes—end of fiscal year for St Guy’s— July 31st. In about a week, the accounts would have had to be shown.
“Find who?” asked Grice.
“The Devil,” said Rollison. “Ever heard of him?”
“You’re an unpredictable fellow,” remarked Grice. “I wish—”
What he wished was not voiced for there were hurried footsteps outside and a man burst through the shop. As he did so there were sounds from further away, shouting, crashing, banging noises, as if Bedlam had been let loose.
“What is it?” called Grice.
“There’s trouble at the wharf, sir!” gasped the man. “Some of the dockers have started a riot there’s hell-let- loose, sir!”
“Nothing unpredictable about me,” said Rollison, as they rushed downstairs. “You can guess what’s happened?”
Grice did not answer but ran through the shop where Craik was standing with his lips quivering, already handcuffed. Grice flung himself into his car and Rollison scrambled in as it moved off. As they approached the end of Jupe Street and the wharf, he saw that the mobile canteen was in the middle of a heaving mass of people. Standing inside it, with Isobel, Jolly was lashing out with what looked like a tea-urn.
The loudest of the voices had an Irish brogue.
“Someone spread the rumour that the canteen attendants were demanding the sack for the Irish,” a nearby policeman said. “If they get hold of Miss Crayne—”
Rollison’s face was bleak.
CHAPTER TWENTY—TWO
The police among the seething mass were heavily outnumbered. Bricks and stones and staves of wood were being used, heads were being cracked and now and again a part of the crowd surged forward as people fell with arms and legs waving, voices screeching in fear and terror. Nearer the wharf, a horse and cart was standing and the horse was squealing with terror and rearing up.
Grice drove as near as he could.
“We’ll have to walk,” he said.
“Walk if you want to,” said Rollison, white-faced. He was more than a hundred yards from the canteen and he knew that Jolly would not be able to stand out much longer. The main attack was undoubtedly directed towards the canteen. Buns and sandwiches were being flung in all directions and cups and saucers were hurtling through the air.
Grice got out.
