“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:
St Guy’s Poor People’s Relief Fund Another was marked: “Church ReconstructioN”, a third: “Church Accounts”.
“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. Honorary Treasurer—Joseph Craik, Esq.” He turned over some of the pages, smiling oddly. “Many, many entries,” he went on. “Almost certainly the records of the whisky transactions. As the old Vicar was so ill, Craik had everything under his own control. This looked quite safe until Kemp came along. The day was fast approaching when Kemp would want to see the accounts. Falsified accounts— not smaller but infinitely larger than they had any right to be. Obviously it was essential that Kemp should not come across them until dummy accounts had been made up. You certainly find him everywhere,” Rollison added, heavily.
“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
“Let’s Blame The Irish”
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.
Rollison slid into his place and raced the engine, startling the people nearest him. They scrambled out of his way. He edged the car forward and Grice appeared at the other door, suddenly, and climbed in again. A man cuffed his head, another caught his finger in the door as it slammed and howled with pain. Grice opened the door and caught a glimpse of a man’s thumb, dripping blood, and a face which had gone white. The face dropped away. Rollison drove the car faster, bumping three people out of the way. He wound up his window as someone smashed a stave against it. Grice locked his door. The surging crowd surrounded the car but Rollison would not let them stop him. When half a dozen people put their weight against the radiator and the bumper he raced the engine and forced them aside. Men clung to the running-board, one sitting on the bonnet, battering at the windscreen with his fists. Rollison ignored him, craned his neck and managed to keep the canteen in view.
A giant with a crop of red hair was leaning over the counter and had caught Jolly’s wrist.
He was trying to pull Jolly into the crowd. Isobel was battering at his head with an enamel jug. A second man clutched her wrist and she snatched up a knife from behind the counter.
The man let go.
“Good for Isobel!” said Rollison.
The canteen was still twenty-five yards away and the crush around it seemed to be too great even for the car to get through. Tight-lipped, he sent two men down; they were dragged aside. The crowd swayed away and he was able to make another ten yards; then another ten.
The red-haired man had disappeared but two others were tugging at Jolly and now one man had his fingers buried in Isobel’s hair. Not far away, someone was swinging a stick but he was a short fellow whom Rollison could not see properly. He seemed to be battering his way towards the canteen. Two uniformed policemen were battling towards it.
The car reached the canteen, drawing up only two yards away from it. A dozen people were battering at the doors. Tight-lipped and pale, Rollison drew his automatic.
“Be careful!” Grice snapped.
“Careful be damned!” Rollison brandished the gun and it was enough to make the nearer men back away. He opened the door and leapt towards the canteen counter. Using the gun as a club, he cracked it on the heads of the men tugging at Jolly, forcing them to relinquish their grip. He struck the man who was pulling Isobel’s hair and heard the crack of the blow. The man dropped back and Isobel drew away, brushing the hair out of her eyes.
Rollison vaulted over the counter, nearly knocking Jolly over, and swung round, pointing the gun at the crowd. Grice joined in, the four of them a tight fit inside the canteen.
There were hundreds of men in front of them, roaring, swearing, cursing.
Above the din, Rollison could hear the stentorian voice of Foreman Owen. It was he who was brandishing the stick and forcing his way up. He burst through and turned to face the crowd.
“Get back to work, you . . .” he roared. “Get back, if a mother’s son of you stays another minute, I’ll—”
What he was going to add was drowned in another roar but it was caused by a different crowd, coming down Jupe Street—and, in the van, Rollison saw Billy the Bull and Bill Ebbutt. The members of the gymnasium club were coming in a solid phalanx, pushing everyone before them. Soon, the malice of the crowd was turned towards them.
By now the police had been reinforced and were appearing along side streets and from the wharf. Rollison, gasping for breath, watched the riot subside as the men began to slip away, many returning to the wharf. Owen chased after them, yelling his head off.
Rollison turned to Isobel.
“There’s your mild little man,” he remarked.
Isobel laughed, in spite of herself. Her face was scratched and a few strands of hair had been torn out but she was not seriously hurt. Jolly had an ugly gash in his right cheek and his wrists were swollen but he was smiling as he watched the crowd moving away.
“I was getting a little perturbed, sir,” he admitted.
“I was scared stiff!” said Rollison. “I bet Kemp will be sorry he missed this one. He’s in the clear, by the way.”
Isobel stared.
"By the way!” she echoed.