by John Creasey
“Do you mean you know?” asked Grice.
“I think so. And so should you, you’ve had access to the evidence! And of course I might be wrong and I’d hate to spoil my reputation! Am I asking so much?” he added, appealingly. “You went for Straker and lo! you were rewarded.”
“All right,” said Grice and stepped to the telephone.
“Rolly . . .” began Isobel.
“Hush!” said Rollison. “It’s time for action. Talking’s over.”
“Do you really think there’s a chance?”
“We shall have your Ronald out of this spot before very long and Straker Brothers in a very much deeper one. Perhaps even the proprietors of East Wharf, too. I suppose it’s no use asking you to go and see your friends at Caterham?” he added, hopefully. “You owe them a visit and an apology.”
“I’m coming with you,” said Isobel, firmly.
“I was afraid you were. But for Kemp’s sake, do as I ask. He won’t want you a corpse and there is deep malice, not only in Straker but in the others. Kemp has completely upset their plans. He started them on the downward path and, by George, he’s seeing them drop into the River Styx itself! They hate him, as they’ve already proved, but why should they have a chance to wreak vengeance on you? Take out your mobile canteen. Go down there to the East Wharf area where you’ll get a grandstand view.
Isobel still hesitated.
“Go with Miss Crayne, Jolly,” ordered Rollison and smiled in approval when his man said: “Of course, sir,” without even looking disappointed.
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.
“Loo
k 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.
“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 b
ut 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.
“Well, in a manner of speaking,” smiled Rollison. “He’ll be out within an hour, I should think. Eh, Bill?”
“Yes,” said Grice. “Why on earth did this begin?”
“As I understand it, sir,” said Jolly, “there was a sudden outburst of trouble at the wharf. A party of Irish were abused by some of the others and that started a free fight. It spread very quickly—the Irish have a reputation for being bellicose, as you probably know.”
Grice frowned. “The Irish—”
“Oh, let’s blame the Irish, by all means!” said Rollison, taking out cigarettes and proffering them. “But let’s be serious, Bill. The fact that a police cordon had been flung round a wide area leaked out—as it was bound to. Craik and the others tried a diversion. There’s bad blood between some Irish dockers and some English and it never takes much to start a fight, as Isobel and I saw the other evening,” he added.