Nor did Kemp talk of his visitor.
There was nothing at the first hall.
By the time they reached the second Craik, Whiting and several other members of St Guy’s had arrived with a crowd of sightseers, some of whom jeered and some looked pale and worried. The comb-out of the East End was proceeding fast; suspects were being detained and questioned.
Rollison was prepared to find the store of whisky at the hall and was wondering what his best course would be afterwards but nothing was found.
Kemp was relieved. Chumley was obviously disappointed. Craik was smiling, his lips quivering like a rabbit’s; that might also have been with relief.
Chumley turned away from a sergeant and said audibly:
“Someone’s tipped them off, that’s what’s happened.”
He looked meaningly towards Rollison who ignored him and walked off with Kemp. As they neared Jupe Street, Kemp asked:
“Do you think they were warned, Rollison?”
“Possibly,” conceded Rollison, “but if there were stores, of the whisky in any of the halls earlier today, or even yesterday, I don’t think I hey could have been moved without a trace. There’s something I’ve missed,” he went on. “It’s something fairly obvious and it concerns you. Be more careful than ever.”
“I suppose you couldn’t be wrong in thinking—”
“Cobbett was killed because he might have talked too freely—he was badly scared last night,” said Rollison. “O’Hara was killed for the same reason. You might be next on the list.”
“But what could I talk about?”
“Presumably nothing, yet. It’s something you might come across,” said Rollison. He arranged for Grice to send two Scotland Yard men to watch Kemp as unobtrusively as possible then returned to Gresham Terrace where Jolly found him, an hour later, in a mood not far removed from dejection. As the valet entered, Rollison looked up.
“Any luck?” he demanded.
“Not yet, sir,” began Jolly, “I . . .”
“I’ve been making you waste your time and I’ve wasted my own,” Rollison said and he went into some detail. “I thought I had one thing sewn up and when the bag was opened there wasn’t even a rabbit inside. We’re being played for suckers, Jolly!”
“I can’t believe that, sir.”
“I can and do,” said Rollison. “I’ve reached the point where I think Kemp might be being persecuted simply to distract attention from the real purpose. Note how carefully everything has been covered up. Keller—and a shadowy individual who might be Keller. Gregson taking orders one night, giving them the next. The Docker deliberately thrust into our faces—and nothing gained from the pub.”
“As you expected,” murmured Jolly.
“Yes but I did expect something from the halls.”
Jolly said, quietly: “O’Hara and Cobbett were murdered, sir. I hardly think anyone would go to the lengths of murder in order to throw out a smokescreen, if I may use the allegory. Both of those men could have betrayed the leaders. That is certain.”
“Ye-es. Find their murderers, find the— Jolly!”
“Yes, sir?”
“Did I make a mistake in confiding in that foreman, Owen? Who else knew that I suspected Cobbett?”
Jolly eyed him steadily, seemed about to speak and then changed his mind and suggested that he should make some coffee.
“You stay where you are,” said Rollison. “What were you going to say?”
“I don’t really think—” began Jolly.
“Out with it,” insisted Rollison. “I don’t want concern for my feelings. If I’ve missed an obvious possibility, tell me. I’m beginning to think I have.”
“I don’t think so, sir,” said Jolly, looking troubled, in fact, I feel hardly justified in mentioning what sprang to my mind but, since you insist, I will tell you. You might have been wrong in confiding in Owen but he was not the only man whom you told of your suspicions of Cobbett.”
“Now, come! Chumley may be feeling sour and might have tumbled to it, but—”
“I’m not thinking of the police, sir,” said Jolly, still ill-at-ease, “and I’m not thinking seriously of Mr Kemp but you did let him know that you considered last night’s accident might have been an attempt to murder him, didn’t you? And, if the mission halls were being used but were emptied in a hurry, it means that there was a leakage of information.”
“Oh, no,” said Rollison, blankly. “Our fighting parson? Now, be serious, Jolly!”
He neither expected nor hoped to silence his man; in fact his words constituted a challenge and probably nothing else would have encouraged Jolly to explain his reasoning. Nettled, Jolly said:
“The truth is, sir, that we are in danger of surrendering to sentiment which prevents us from considering Mr Kemp as a suspect. After all, the trouble started six months ago—” Rollison whistled. “By George!”
“That was when Mr Kemp first took up his position at St Guy’s,” continued Jolly, firmly. “Moreover, although any one of a number of people might have given warning that you thought the halls might be used to store the whisky, only Mr Kemp and Owen could have known that you proposed to visit Cobbett. And there is no reason at all for imagining that Owen knew anything about your suspicions of the halls.”
“The only man who always rings the bell is Kemp,” said Rollison, impressed in spite of himself.
“It is a fact, sir,” said Jolly, reluctantly. “I don’t know that I would have thought of it myself, except for a rather strange discovery I made this evening. I visited several of the less respectable night-clubs and at one of them an attendant was extremely impertinent—”
He paused but Rollison kept silent.
“He went so far as to say, sir,” said Jolly, feelingly, “that I looked a sanctimonious hypocrite. Those were his actual words. He added that he did not want any more visitors who wore their collars the wrong way round during the day. In the end he apologised and told me that some seven or eight months ago a youthful clergyman was a frequent visitor. I described Mr Kemp.”
Jolly stopped.
“And the description fitted?” asked Rollison.
“I’m afraid it did, sir,” said Jolly. “Naturally it set up a train of thought, so I made other inquiries. I learned that Mr Kemp held a curacy at one of the Mayfair churches, before he went to St Guy’s.” When Rollison still did not speak, he went on almost appealingly: i did say that our sentiments had blinded us to the possibility, didn’t I, sir? In spite of what I learned, I was—I am!—reluctant to think that the circumstances are anything more than coincidental. Aren’t you, sir?”
Rollison did not answer.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Help From A Lady
After some minutes of silence Jolly, looking deeply concerned, as if moved by the expression on Rollison’s face, moved restlessly and asked:
Are you feeling all right, sir?”
Rollison bestirred himself, lit a cigarette and said:
“Yes. Make that coffee, will you?”
He sat back in an easy chair, smoking, his eyes narrowed towards the ceiling. He did not stir until Jolly came in, placed the tray on a small table and turned to go.
“Bring a cup for yourself,” said Rollison.
“Thank you, sir.” Jolly returned with cup and saucer and Rollison watched while he poured out. On such occasions, it was not Jolly’s habit to sit on the edge of the chair—if Rollison suggested a drink together then Jolly rightly assumed that he did not want to stand oil ceremony. When Jolly was sitting back and stirring his coffee, Rollison appeared to relax.
“You’re quite right,” he said, with a fainl smile. “Kemp is the obvious suspect Number One—a shattering realisation. I should have remembered that Isobel Crayne told me that she had heard him preach in Mayfair. Bui unless I am badly mistaken, he is developing a fondness for Miss Crayne. Both of them stood in the way of the crane-load last night and both appeared to be in equal danger. On the other hand, if he were expecting it he would have known which way to jump. A quick eye and a quick hand—he could have dodged to one side with her at the last moment and thus lent the utmost credence to the apparent fact that he was nearly a victim. I would probably have been killed and saved a lot of trouble. Even if I escaped, I would be disinclined to suspect Kemp whatever the indications. The accident might even have been planned without any thought that I might be present, solely to make the police and me look anywhere but at Kemp.”