“Yes.”
“Go hard at him. He might know who Keller is. Have his friend, Spike Adams, questioned on the same lines. Trail the foreman, Owen. Get hold of the drivers of Straker’s lorries and have a go at them. The presumption is that the whisky is brought to East Wharf and other wharves and a little at a time is distributed from there, probably to a lot of warehouses. It’s obviously distributed to clubs and pubs quickly so there is never a hoard in any one place at any one time. That’s an essential part of the whole scheme, you know. The police wouldn’t be likely to worry about a few dozen bottles at a time. Will you get busy?” He spoke appealingly.
“When I’ve decided what’s worth doing,” Grice promised. “I’m not convinced that you’re right.”
Grice left in a subdued mood.
Jolly had hardly reported to Rollison that Isobel was on the way before she arrived. She was in uniform and hatless.
“Kemp is safe for the time being,” Rollison told her. “He’ll stay safe only if you and I can persuade him to stay at Cannon Row police station for the rest of the day.”
“Are you going to let him down again?” demanded Isobel.
“Oh, my sainted aunt!” moaned Rollison. “Isobel, love, I’m on his side. I tell you the only safe place for him is in the police station.”
He convinced her at length and soon they were in the little room at Cannon Row where detained persons were held. Any solicitor could get them out, unless they were held under charge. Kemp was not sullen but he was bitter and he appeared to have little time for Rollison, until Isobel persuaded him that Rollison was working for his best interests.
Rollison said: “You could go free but more likely the police would charge you with some offence, so as to hold you. If they let you go, you’ll be in greater danger than ever. And this is no time for saying that you can stand on your own two feet. You might get a satisfying sop to your vanity and a fillip to your physical courage but you’re the key to the problem. We can’t solve it without you, so we need you alive.”
Reluctantly, Kemp agreed.
“I’m sure you won’t regret it,” enthused Rollison. “Now, think as you have never thought before. What do you know of Arthur Straker, at your first church?”
“He was the only man who ever gave me the slightest support,” said Kemp. “What do you know about him?”
“Nothing,” said Rollison, promptly. “I’m just checking that you think he’s reliable.”
“I am quite sure,” insisted Kemp.
“Good. Do you know who telephoned asking you to go to the club this morning?”
“It was the man who calls himself Gregson,” said Kemp. “I had been there before—I once tried to get the club closed down but I couldn’t convince the police that it was necessary. While I was there I saw a number of people taken ill after drinking whisky. Gregson used to tell me that he did his best to make sure he got hold of quality stuff only and he rang up this morning and said he thought I would be interested to know that he had discovered how the poison reached him. So I went.
“When I got there, he asked me whether I made a profit out of helping to distribute it and then, when the police arrived—I think he knew you were outside—he made the conversation sound pretty incriminating. If the police hadn’t been so arbitrary—”
Rollison smiled.
“You aren’t the world’s most tactful suspect, you know! Unbend now. Unbend as far as you know how. The police don’t want to see an innocent man convicted.” Without waiting for Kemp to respond, he went on: “One other thing. Did young Cobbett—the crane-driver— come to see you an hour or so before he was killed?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“He seemed badly upset,” said Kemp. “Very remorseful about the accident. I told him not to worry. As a matter of fact, Rollison, I think you were wrong about him.”
“Make sure you tell the police that. Even if you appear to be incriminating yourself, tell them everything. After all,” he added, “you don’t want to break Isobel’s heart!”
Then he left Kemp and Isobel together.
He did not think it would be long before he knew the whole truth and, at the back of his mind, there was an exasperating suspicion that he had missed something so obvious that when eventually he discovered what it was, he would be annoyed with his own blindness.
He was most concerned with Cobbett’s murder. That had been a clever trick which could still put Kemp in the dock on a capital charge. Doubtless Cobbett had been sent to apologise, to allay the curate’s suspicions; then had been killed near a place where Kemp would be the obvious suspect.
“And who told Cobbett?” Rollison asked himself. “Owen?” Owen had made no move during the day to suggest that he was involved. The East End was like a city of the dead. There was a furtive, hang-dog look about most of the people whom he did see and there were more policemen in plainclothes about than was usual.
Passing Craik’s shop, he saw the little man through the open doorway—the broken panel of the door had been replaced. Craik called after him timidly and he turned to see the shopkeeper standing on the doorstep rubbing his hands.
“I don’t like worrying you, sir,” said Craik, his lips quivering. “But—but is it true that Mr Kemp has been arrested?”
“No,” said Rollison, emphatically.
“Oh, it isn’t! Oh, I am glad!” exclaimed Craik. “I was afraid it was true, this is such a wicked affair, sir. It—it seems to affect all the best-meaning people. He hasn’t been seen since this morning.”
“He doesn’t have to stay here all the time,” observed Rollison, annoyed by this leakage of information, “who told you anything about it?”
“One of my customers,” said Craik.
“Which one?” demanded Rollison.
Craik could not be sure. The shop had been crowded in the morning and the subject had cropped up in general conversation. He would not name any individual, for fear of doing injustice. Pressed, he admitted that he had been so rushed that he had not really noticed who had been in the shop. He remembered old Mrs Whiting because she had appeared to think that Kemp might be guilty of some crime.
“I soon put her in her place,” said Craik, virtuously.
“And so you should,” said Rollison. “Has the story of Kemp’s arrest got around much do you know?”
“I’m sure I couldn’t say,” Craik answered. “I know I haven’t said anything!”
Rollison, feeling sceptical of these protestations, went to 49, Little Lane. Whiting was out but his wife was there and two of Ebbutt’s men were on the other side of the street. Mrs Whiting looked troubled, asked Rollison in and then turned on her mother who came tottering into the front parlour.
“There’s no need for you, Ma!”
“I got my rights, ain’t I?” demanded the old woman. “What’s worrying you, now,” she shot a venomous glance at Rollison.
The younger woman looked on edge but made no further attempt to send her mother about her business.
“I’ve heard a rumour about Mr Kemp—” Rollison began.
“There you are,” put in the old crone. “I knew it wasn’t a lie, just because you said it was. I don’t care what you say, I’m going to tell Mrs Parsons and—”
“If you say a word to her or any other mealy-mouthed old gossip, out of this house you go!” cried Mrs Whiting and her tone so startled her mother that the old woman sat down abruptly, gaping, it’s wicked, it is really, Mr Rollison,” went on Mrs Whiting, nearly in tears. “Someone has been saying that Mr Kemp is under arrest.”