only one who can find out how. It may be simply a matter of having trodden on someone’s corns but it doesn’t look like that to me,” he admitted, thoughtfully.
“What does it look like?” asked Kemp.
“A much bigger motive,” said Rollison. “But that’s guesswork and won’t help us. This Mr and Mrs Whiting— where do they live?”
“In Little Lane—it’s off Jupe Street.”
“I know it,” said Rollison. “Let’s go and see them.”
Kemp obviously did not see much point in them both going but he raised no serious objection and, after closing the door, the lock of which had been broken by the wreckers, they walked through the blackout towards Little Lane.
They had not gone fifty yards before Rollison knew that they were being followed.
He said nothing to Kemp until they reached the corner and then spoke in a whisper.
“Walk straight on and make as much noise as you can. Don’t argue!”
He heard Kemp’s intake of breath as the man was about to speak but obediently the curate crossed the end of the lane and stamped towards Whitechapel Road. Rollison slipped back into the lane and, after a few seconds, two men passed; they made little sound and the soft padding of their footsteps told him that they were wearing rubber-soled shoes.
He wished that he was, too.
He moved after them, drawing closer. It was too dark for him to see Kemp but he could just make out the figures of the others. Both were short men who moved easily and silently.
Kemp’s footsteps rang out clearly and the two short men quickened their pace.
Rollison followed suit, caring less now about being heard, but the others appeared too intent on their task to keep on the alert for anyone else.
Rollison suddenly shone his torch full on the two men who were within a few feet of Kemp. One of them had an arm upraised, and was holding a cosh.
“Look out, Kemp!” cried Rollison.
He broke into a run as Kemp swung round; the cosh appeared to strike him on the shoulder but with nothing like the power with which he struck at his assailant. The man toppled over before his companion swung round to get away—only to run straight into Rollison.
He tried to dodge aside; Rollison put out a leg and tripped him up.
“Are you all right?” he called to Kemp.
After a pause, Kemp called back in a strained voice.
“Rollison, I think I’ve hurt him.”
“Even if you’ve broken his neck, it wouldn’t rate as manslaughter! Is he unconscious?”
The man he had tripped up was foxing as he lay motionless on the floor and he kept the beam of light on him.
“Yes,” called Kemp.
“Make sure, then pick him up and take him back to the hall,” said Rollison. “I—ah!”
His own victim sprang to his feet like a spring-heeled-Jack and made to dart down the street but Rollison shot out a hand and caught his coat, yanking him back. He fended off an attempt to kick him in the stomach, got a grip on the man’s arm and held it behind his back in a hammer-lock. The man began to squeal.
“The more you wriggle, the more it will hurt,” Rollison said quietly.
No one appeared to have heard the scuffle and the only sounds were their voices and Kemp’s footsteps. Kemp came up, carrying a man in his arms and Rollison spoke mildly.
“I don’t like ribbing you all the time, old chap, but if he comes round he could get his hands on your throat, or gouge your eyes out or knee you in the stomach. Put him over your shoulder in a fireman’s hold and keep a grip on one of his wrists. That’s better!” Although he could not see clearly in the light of the torch, he approved the speed with which Kemp took his advice. Together, they went to the hall. The squealing of the Toff’s captive grew louder. Still no one appeared to hear them and they entered the hall without having encountered a soul.
Kemp lowered his victim to a broken bench.
“Surely
Rollison chuckled.
“Half Jupe Street heard us but it wasn’t their business. We haven’t done so badly, have we?”
“Did you expect this?”
“I wasn’t altogether surprised,” admitted Rollison, “but I didn’t hope for a brace of them. Nasty-looking brutes, aren’t they? Have you ever seen either of them before?”
“No,” said Kemp.
Looped round the right wrist of his victim, who was still unconscious but not badly hurt, was a cosh—a weapon not unlike a rubber truncheon but smooth and round at one end and narrow near the wrist. He pulled it off; it was flexible and he swished it through the air, letting it go perilously close to the man who was cowering back against the wall. The weapon missed his head by inches.
“No!” he gasped. “No!”
