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 i’s.”
“Yet he didn’t convince you?”
Grice did not answer until he was at the wheel of his car and driving away from the kerb. Then he said:
“I’m open to conviction. You’ve done pretty well in a few days—and we’d been after Straker for weeks. If you’re right about one thing, why not another?”
“Oh, what a generous heart!” beamed Rollison. “We really should work together more. By the way, do you know who the real Keller is? The man who killed O’Hara? The man who sent Cobbett to apologise to Kemp and afterwards murdered him?”
“No. Do you?”
“Yes. But you haven’t heard all the evidence. The rumour that Kemp was under arrest got round. I denied it but didn’t explain that he had been detained for questioning. It could only have reached Whitechapel vide police— who can be ruled out—or the crooks themselves. But the rumour wasn’t widespread. Few people knew of it when Joe Craik told me. I went along to see the Whitings, the old hag of which family was sizzling with impatience to go round and spread the news but her daughter had stopped her. Craik told me that he had heard it from one of his customers but the only one who appears to have known of it was the Whitings’ grandmere who said that Craik told her. She has a garrulous friend, a Mrs Parsons, who has a reputation for spreading news quicker than anyone else. Had Mrs Parsons heard about it, then it would have got everywhere. The gallant Mrs Whiting prevented that, and so gave me the answer.”
“Craik!” exclaimed Grice.
“Craik himself, yes. He made one mistake— he relied on the Whitings’ mother to tell Mrs Parsons. He thought it safe to say he had heard from the neighbours but, thanks to Mrs Whiting, no one else knew.”
Grice said, slowly:
“Apart from the fact that we first arrested him and let him go, what real grounds have you for saying this, Rolly? He did try to kill himself, didn’t he?”
“I thought so and I said so. Very clever fellow, Craik. But although I actually saw him in bed, holding the gas tube, there was one piece of evidence that I missed. Behind the bed was a hole in the wainscotting. When I found that I thought it was used to store his poison, assuming he was a secret drinker. Actually, it would have been easy for him to have staged a suicide attempt while holding the end of the tube to the wainscotting, so that the gas went out into the street. There was a smell of gas above the shop but none inside it, the point I missed at the time. Craik told one or more of his customers he would be open, then closed up. He knew that anything unusual would quickly reach Kemp’s ears and wanted to be ‘seen’ in the middle of a suicide attempt. Pretty smart, wasn’t it?”
“If you’re right, he’s capable of anything.”
“Of all that’s happened, yes. Of course, O’Hara knew that he was a party to the crime, that’s why Craik killed O’Hara with his own knife. Then he had to make it look as if he were being framed. First, the threats against the Whitings, to stop Whiting from talking. Then a message through Harris, who admitted having stolen the knife—you can bet he was handsomely paid for that ‘confession’! Next, information leaked to Chumley through the unknown Keller, a man who doesn’t exist but who has been built up to create the right impression.”
“What about the man who calls himself Keller?” demanded Grice.
The rest of the journey to Whitechapel passed in silence.
At the far end of Jupe Street stood the WVS mobile canteen with a view of the street and of the wharf. The wharf appeared very busy and Grice drove past Craik’s shop and to the wharf where a tight-lipped Chumley appeared.
“Is everything set?” asked Grice.
“Yes, sir,” said Chumley, sending a resentful look at Rollison. “When do you want the men to close in?”
“We won’t necessarily want them to close in,” said Rollison. “We want to make sure that no one can get out. Isn’t that right, Superintendent?”
“Yes,” said Grice.
“Perhaps you wouldn’t mind telling me who I ought to be looking for,” said Chumley, sarcastically.
“Gregson and Keller, of whom you have descriptions,” said Grice. “And the man who let himself be talked of as Keller.”
“I think that was Kemp,” declared Chumley.
“That’s what you were intended to think,” said Grice. “Mr Rollison and I are going to Craik’s shop. Have two or three of your men keeping an eye open there.”
“Craik!” gasped Chumley.
“The man Sergeant Bray arrested and whom you later released,” murmured Rollison.
Grice turned the car and drove to Craik’s shop. He and Rollison hurried into the shop, catching Craik by surprise as he stood behind the counter with a thin knife in his hand; it was poised over some tinned pork, for two waiting customers.
“Why, good afternoon!” said Craik, round-eyed. “I hope—”
“It’s no use, Keller,” said Rollison. “We know who you are.” He was almost taken by surprise by the other’s speed. Craik swung his right arm, slicing the air with the knife. Rollison backed swiftly, picked up a tin from the counter and flung it. The customers screamed. The tin caught Craik on the side of the head and made him stagger against the shelves. Rollison darted through the gap in the counter and to the stairs. By the time two of Chumley’s men were holding Craik and Grice was coming after Rollison, there were footsteps above their heads. Rollison put his shoulder to the door of the back bedroom and broke it down.
As he stood aside, a bullet came from the window.
“Look out!” he shouted.
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.