“Not a bad idea,” said Rollison. “Well, we’re making progress of a kind. The main trouble is that I’ve started working from the wrong angle. They may distribute it in small quantities but there appears to be a lot of it about. Given much thought to distribution?”

“Yes,” said Grice.

He did not enlarge and so gave Rollison the impression that he was holding something back. Rollison did not attempt to force any information but went on thoughtfully:

“East Wharf might possibly be the distributing point as there’s a lot of quite legitimate stuff brought in—does any of it come from Eire, do you know?”

“Some, yes,” said Grice cautiously. “But most Irish goods come in at the West coast ports. Some shipments come direct to London but if you’re thinking that the stuff is Irish whisky, you’re—”

Rollison laughed.

“Don’t insult the Irish distillers. But where are there as many illicit stills as in Ireland? If a manager or foreman of a wharf co-operated, it might be brought off the ships.”

“There’s no evidence that it is and I think it’s made in England,” Grice said.

“You’re probably right,” admitted Rollison. “However, supposing it is brought in at East Wharf, what happens to it then? It could be loaded straight on to the lorries and—”

He paused.

“Now what’s in your mind?” demanded Grice.

“I was picturing a charming little scene at the wharf,” said Rollison. “A big Irishman ribbed an English docker who promptly called him a neutral and started a free fight. All without malice as far as I could see. But as soon as it had stopped—the foreman handled it well— the combatants were put on to loading the same lorry. They must have been in a big hurry to get the lorry loaded and off.”

“Why?” asked Grice.

“You know, you’re not really as dull as this! The obvious reason would be to get whatever they were loading en route before the police arrived. Police would be bound to arrive on the scene as soon as word of the accident reached them, wouldn’t they?”

“Do you think East Wharf should be raided?”

“Certainly not just now!” exclaimed Rollison. “If there’s anything in the idea, the stuff has been sent away and we’d only put them on their guard. You might care to find out if that was an Irish ship, though, and keep some eyes open when the next one comes in from Eire. A suggestion only!” he added, mildly.

“I know all about your suggestions,” said Grice. “It’s a good one, anyhow.”

“Thanks. Do you know your Sergeant Bray very well?”

“Fairly well,” said Grice, cautiously.

“Is he as hot-headed as he seems? I gathered that he made the arrest a little precipitately.”

“He was right to act as he did and also right to take Craik to Divisional headquarters. Bray’s a good chap. He might have made a mistake but, if you’re asking me whether I propose to reprimand him for this, I’m not.”

“I should hope not!” exclaimed Rollison. “Er—Chumley was spry, too, wasn’t he?”

“Chumley is spry,” said Grice, quietly.

Rollison raised an eyebrow.

“Like that, is it? I was mistaken, I always thought he was one of the better men in the division but he’s showing unsuspected qualities of slyness, too. I suppose he wants to keep the glory in the Division?”

Grice made no comment.

“It’s a thousand pities that you can’t be frank, by reason of the rules and regulations,” Rollison remarked.

Grice smiled and said gently:

“There are no rules and regulations binding you!”

“True,” admitted Rollison. “But then, I’m nearly always frank with you! It’s certainly a pity that we can’t make a completely fresh start in this business. Seeing that I am in on the ground floor, why not let me have my head without base suspicions of personal motives and dark whisperings about being unorthodox?”

“In other words, will the police authorise you to continue to work your own way!”

“Wrong,” murmured Rollison. “Will the police authorise the Military Authorities?”

Grice was still smiling, in spite of his sunburn and his reticence, when Rollison left his office.

Rollison felt very much more cheerful as he hurried to Gresham Terrace and regaled Jolly with the news.

“And what will you do now, sir?” asked Jolly, obviously pleased.

“I’ll see Cobbett,” said Rollison. “You’d better have a look round the clubs in the Mayfair area. Don’t be too obvious but try to find out whether Gregson has been an intermediary or our man with the big brown eyes. Failing either, try to find out who has been peddling it in this part of the world.”

“Very good, sir,” said Jolly, who was used to attempting the impossible but never complained for Rollison never asked him to attempt what he would not try himself.

Still in a good humour, Rollison left the flat before his man, remembering that he had not yet had dinner. He had missed it two nights running and decided that he could safely afford an hour at his club. He managed to get a single table and thus avoided conversation. Soon after nine o’clock, he was on his way to the home of Cobbett the crane-driver. There, he was told by a sharp-voiced, middle-aged woman—his mother—that Cobbett had not been in all day and she had no idea where he might be found if not at The Docker. When Rollison tried to get more particulars about her son she closed up completely. Did that mean she knew that Cobbett would be in trouble if she talked?

He went to The Docker but Cobbett was not there.

With veiled insolence, the barman told him that Cobbett had not been in all day and the blousy barmaid, who had once inspired Keller’s mob to attack a man who had waited for her after opening hours, did not even spare Rollison a glance. None of the customers appeared to recognise him.

On the other side of the road, when he left, were three familiar-looking men and, further along, another three. They were plainclothes policemen, trying to look the part of dock-labourers. That was a mistake. Thoughtfully, he strolled towards Jupe Street and was near it when a police car turned the corner. In it, he saw Chumley.

“So The Docker is going to be raided,” mused Rollison, and was smiling when he reached the hall.

Kemp was reading in his little room. He put his book down and jumped up.

“Billy the Bull’s been asking for you, Rolly.”

“When?” asked Rollison.

“He’s sent that bald-headed second round several times since five o’clock,” said Kemp. “I wouldn’t be surprised if—”

Before he could finish the door opened and Billy the Bull’s second danced in, squeaked complainingly that he could not waste all day and demanded that Rollison should go with him. He talked shrilly and at length but, by winks, nods and asides, gave the impression that he was aware that he was taking part in a conspiracy of great importance. Rollison humoured him and not until they were out of Kemp’s hearing did the little man say:

“Billy said I wasn’t to tell anyone where we was goin’, Mr Ar, ‘sept you.”

“Where are we going?” asked Rollison, patiently.

“St Guy’s hall, near East Wharf,” answered the bald-headed man. “Billy and me have bin watchin’ it, like you said. Took over at three o’clock, we did. A coupla ruffians—” he brought the word out contemptuously “—tried to start a fight. A fight, wiv Billy!”

“They couldn’t have known Billy,” said Rollison, quickening his pace. The little man danced by his side and soon they were within sight of the wharf. There was no sign of activity for the ship had been cleared of its cargo. The WVS canteen was not there and the wooden hall, with its flimsy wire fence wrecked by the previous night’s incident, looked small and lonely against the high walls of warehouses some distance behind it.

Billy the Bull was pacing up and down.

“I’m glad you’ve come, Mr Ar,” he said, worriedly, “I dunno that I like it. Bill Ebbutt tole me that I wasn’t ter come too close an’ wasn’t ter look inside but if you arst me, it’s time someone did.”

“Why?” asked Rollison, hurrying towards the hall.

“Two fellers tried to start a fight,” said Billy, “but I wouldn’t ‘ave nothing to do wiv’ them, Mr Ar.” He was very serious. “Soon’s I looked rahnd, there was another couple on the other side’ve the “all but I never seed them go in. Do yer fink we’ve found sunnink?”

“It wouldn’t surprise me,” said Rollison.

It took him five minutes to pick the lock of the hall, under the admiring gaze of Billy and his companion. He pushed open the door and stepped cautiously inside but there was no need for caution. The only occupant was Cobbett. He had been strangled and his crumpled body lay in the middle of the floor.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The Endeavours Of Chumley

Presh from what had proved a fruitless raid on The Docker, where all the liquor had been legally obtained and where the occupants had openly derided the police, Chumley went to the scene of Cobbett’s murder. He was not in a good mood and was still sore with the Toff. He asked questions, browbeat Billy the Bull, seemed to regret that there was evidence that Rollison had not been there alone and said that he proposed to pull the hall down, if necessary, to find what was hidden there.

“Nothing’s hidden here,” said Rollison. “If there were, they wouldn’t have murdered Cobbett on the premises.”

“Even you might be wrong,” said Chumley, sarcastically.

But there was nothing hidden in the hall nor beneath it; there was nothing to indicate that it had been used as a storage place for whisky or other contraband. The back door had not been forced; Cobbett’s murderers had used a key. There were no fingerprints, nothing that might serve as a clue and Billy the Bull could give no reliable description of the men he had seen.

Chumley will try the other places now, thought Rollison, and one was bound to yield results. He stayed close to Chumley all the evening as they went from hall to hall. Kemp joined them, giving permission for the search freely. No one had the chance to tell Rollison of Craik’s advice to Cobbett.

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!”

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