“No. They’re only wooden huts. Mr Cartwright believed in getting out among the people, he thought it easier than trying to persuade them to walk as far as St Guy’s.”
“There isn’t much wrong with Cartwright’s reasoning,” said Rollison.
“It would just about finish him if he learned about this,” said Kemp, grimly.
Rollison looked his amazement.
“Finish Cartwright? Not on your life! He’d want to get out of bed and be after them with an axe!”
Kemp looked startled.
“Perhaps you’re right. I—” he stopped abruptly with his mouth parted and his puffy eye opened. Rollison watched him, not surprised at the sudden change and knowing that sooner or later one possibility would occur to Kemp.
“Look here!” exclaimed the curate, “was that accident with the crane really an accident? Or—”
“Or, I think,” answered Rollison. “They know that they haven’t a chance of driving you out and they’re getting desperate. Accidents will happen,” he repeated, ironically. “They won’t want to work up police interest by straightforward murder. The police didn’t go so wild over the murder of O’Hara as they would over the Rev Ronald Kemp. Watch your step—literally.”
Kemp began to rub his hands together slowly and his good eye began to glisten.
Rollison made a note of the sites of the halls and then went round to Bill’s gymnasium, which he found packed, and where he was greeted with great affability. Soon after he arrived, six men departed with instructions to watch the three halls in couples, from a safe distance, and to report any visits by night or day. Then Rollison mentioned, casually, that he had been served with some pretty potent whisky earlier in the evening.
“There’s some raw stuff about,” declared Bill Ebbutt. “You should ‘ave stayed thirsty until you arrived ‘ere, Mr Ar—I don’t sell poison.” He grinned as well as he could. His face was a mass of bruises, black and blue and purple, and he was obviously in great discomfort. “How’s the Rev?”
“A black eye apart, he’s all right.”
“Bless ‘is heart! Will you ‘ave a drink?” asked Ebbutt
“No, thanks, that one was enough for tonight!” Rollison shuddered, realistically. “Is much hooch sold?”
“There’s been one or two fellers in pitchin’ the tale—you know ‘ow it goes. They’ve got ‘old of a few dozen bottles orf someone who’s gone bankrupt—but if you bought the stuff, you’d soon go broke all right! The samples is all right, sunnines, sunnines they gives you a spot’ve the real poison.”
“Can you remember any of the salesmen?”
Bill Ebbutt began to toy with his fleshy jowl. In a very sober voice, he answered:
“Maybe I could. Are you on to sunnink?”
“I might be but I don’t want your boys to know about it.”
“S’very thoughtful of yer,” said Ebbutt. “Very thoughtful indeed. Bootleg liquor, is it? It could be big.” He closed his eyes in an effort to recall who had tried to sell him the stuff and finally opened them and said hurriedly:
"One was a little Irish feller, a proper Kelly. I dunno his name. The other was one o’ these eddicated types, all smiles. I soon sent ‘im off wiv’ a flea in ‘is ear. Tell yer what, Mr Ar—if anyone else comes peddling it, I’ll buy a dozen an’ see what I can find out.”
“Good idea, Bill!” said Rollison. “This educated fellow—what was he like?”
“Tall-as-you-are-dark-suit-good-looker-clean-shaved-round-erbaht-thirty-five. That do yer, Mr Ar?”
“Wonderful!” said Rollison. “You’ve described the man I have in mind. Have you seen him about lately?”
“Nope.”
“Will you find out if he’s been to any of the other pubs?”
“Yep. If they’ve bought the stuff, they won’t talk—if they ‘aven’t, they’ll tell me.”
The description of ‘Keller’s’ educated companion clinched one thing; the gang was peddling illicit whisky. From the taste of Craik’s sample, Rollison thought it was probably made from illicit stills. There was a great deal of similar stuff on sale, especially at the flashier clubs, and members of the armed services bought more of it than anyone else.
“I think it’s time I saw the Yard,” Rollison decided, standing on a corner and watching the trams pass by, noisy yet ghostly with their faint lights. There were very few cars or other vehicles, except an occasional bus. He strolled towards Whitechapel Station and, as he neared it, a taxi began to move from the curb.
Rollison hailed it, quickly. The driver pulled up.
“Where to?” he demanded. “I’m on me way to me garage, can’t go far.”
“Scotland Yard,” ordered Rollison.
The pavement was filled with people walking slowly to and fro and some of the shadows seemed to be sinister. He did not think he had been followed but, if he had, then ‘Keller’ would soon know where he was going.
The interior of the cab was very dark and the driver started off too soon.
“Be careful!” exclaimed Rollison—and then stopped short for a hand gripped his wrist and another closed over his mouth and he was dragged into the cab as the door banged. The cab moved off at a rattling pace and Rollison, almost suffocated by the pressure on his mouth, could hardly move.
“Going to Scotland Yard, are you,” said the man with the cultured voice.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Unexpected Journey
“Keep still!” the man said and struck Rollison across the face. He had released his grip and Rollison was trying to get himself more comfortable. The scratch on his leg troubled him and he was half-kneeling, half-lying, across the legs of the two occupants of the taxi. He could just see their faces, pale in the darkness.
Soon, he managed to ease his leg and stopped moving.
“That’s better,” the man said. “You’ve made a mistake this time, Rollison. You aren’t going to Scotland Yard.”
“Be careful, Gregson!” said the other who was the self-styled Keller. “He might try to jump out.”
“He won’t take the risk,” said Gregson, confidently. “Sit on one of the tip-up seats, Rollison. Don’t forget that we mean business. If you should meet with a nasty accident—well, you wouldn’t know much about it.”
Groping in the darkness, Rollison pulled a seat down and sat on it. He had not recovered enough to strike out at the others; he doubted whether he would be wise to. Their confidence now was as great as it had been at the flat with better reason.
Gregson said:
“I’ve got a shot of morphia here, Rollison; if you get funny you’ll have it and you won’t wake up again. This is your last chance, if you behave yourself.”
Rollison forced himself to reply:
“Accommodating of you. You’re well-equipped, aren’t you? Am I going to hear more about my own back-yard?”
“That’s enough of that!” snapped ‘Keller.’
He was keeping in the background, the role of spokesman had been switched; Rollison wondered who was really the leader.
He should have been prepared for such an attack. Had the taxi been waiting, he would have wondered whether it had been there fortuitously but, as it had been moving away after dropping a fare, he had not thought twice about it. The incident had been very well-planned.
The only consolation lay in the fact that they still seemed disposed to reason.
The taxi was driving through the back streets of the East End. It had turned round outside the station and was heading further east; he thought they were near the docks. He saw an occasional passer-by from the glow of a cigarette in the darkness. His breathing was easier and he was beginning to feel more capable of tackling the situation.
“You aren’t feeling so clever, are you?” sneered Gregson. “You think you’re a lot smarter than you are, Rollison. If there was anything in your reputation, you wouldn’t have fallen for this trick.”