Blood and Judgement (17 page)

“You’re going to tell me he’s married already,” she said. “Is that right?”

“Yes,” said Petrella. “If we’re talking about the same man.”

She fished in her handbag and pulled out a photograph. It was a snapshot, taken on the beach. It showed a man, lying back on the sand, on his elbows, laughing; a good figure of a man, despite advancing middle age; a nice, easy, indeterminate face.

“I’ve never seen Ricketts or a photograph of him,” said Petrella. “But I can soon show this to someone who has.”

“He was funny about photographs,” said the woman. “He’d never have one taken. If there was anyone about him with a camera he’d keep out of their way. When he found out I’d taken this one, he got hold of the negative and the print and tore them up. I never told him I’d kept a spare print. As a matter of fact, that was what first made me wonder about him. That and the fact that he was so mysterious about his family.”

“You never met any of them?”

“Met them? I never even heard him speak about them. I asked him once or twice, but I soon gave up. Wait a minute, though. When I say never, I’m wrong. Once – it was soon after our marriage – we passed a little girl in the street wearing one of those iron things round her leg and a great heavy foot. I said something – ‘What a handicap it must be.’ He said, ‘My sister’s been like that since she was a baby, and she’s had a very happy life.’”

“You gathered she was still alive?”

Petrella’s eagerness had betrayed him. She stopped, and looked at him.

“Suppose you tell me something first,” she said. “You can guess why I’m here. I read that piece in the papers, about him being found drowned. Was it true?”

For a moment he hesitated. Then a look from her sharp eyes decided him.

“No,” he said. “That was just the newspapers. The truth would have to come out as soon as they had the inquest. It wasn’t Ricketts, it was – someone else.”

“So he’s done the disappearing trick again.”

“Yes,” said Petrella. “He’s done it again.” (How many times before, how many times since?) “When did he walk out on you?”

“In 1949. As soon as we’d spent all my money.”

“I see.”

“And he didn’t walk out on me. I walked out on him.”

He looked at her.

“You probably won’t believe this bit,” she said. “It was early in 1949. We had a flat, at Romford, and he was travelling for Barshalls, the sweet people. But it’s no good asking them about him, because I tried that later, and they didn’t know a damned thing. I was saying – it was one evening, when we were going to bed. We’d had a quarrel. We didn’t quarrel a lot. He was an easy man to live with – but we’d had a quarrel that night, about my money. And it went on in the bedroom. I was sitting on a stool, in front of the dressing table, doing something to my hair. And I said – I can’t remember the exact words – something about it was no good him thinking he could spend all my money and then walk out on me. He married me, and I was his wife, and that was something that lasted for life. And he said, quite quietly, ‘Yes, of course.’ It wasn’t what he said, it was just that I happened to look in the glass at the moment, and caught the expression on his face. It was – it was quite cold. Like a reptile. I’d never seen a look like it before, on a human face, and I never want to again. The next day I packed up my things and walked out on him.”

“It doesn’t tell us a great deal we didn’t know already,” said Haxtell. “It fills out the picture a bit.”

“I’m beginning to visualize Ricketts,” said Petrella.

“He fits into a sort of pattern, doesn’t he? Living on women, spending their money, then cutting adrift.”

“The second Mrs Ricketts cut adrift from him. He scared her stiff.”

“He seems to specialize in scaring women. Now. What have we got–?”

“We’ve got a photograph. I thought I’d check it with Lundgren at once, and then we could have it enlarged and duplicated.”

Haxtell stared down at the snapshot on the desk. From the fading print, the man laughed back at him. Haxtell said, “He’s a handsome old goat, isn’t he? He’s got what all women go for, Patrick. You know what that is? It’s the relaxed look. It doesn’t matter if you spend all her money, beat her, rob her baby’s china money box – as long as you’re relaxed about it, she’ll love every moment of it.”

“I bet he’s relaxing right now,” said Petrella. “And I’ve got an increasing hunch that he’s with that sister of his, taking things easy, planning his next foray.”

“If she’s still alive.”

“She was alive in 1946. And we know one more thing about her, now. She was born with one leg shorter than the other, and she has to wear a thick boot.”

“Unless Ricketts was making that up, too.”

“He’s quite capable, blast him.”

“I’m beginning to think–” said Haxtell, when the telephone interrupted him. It was not a long conversation. It consisted mostly of Haxtell saying “Yes”, and at the end, “All right.”

“You’re wanted down at the Yard,” he said. “As soon as possible. You can take a car.”

“Are you sure that’s right? I was due down there at four o’clock for a – whatever it is is going to happen about Kellaway’s complaint.”

“I don’t know about that. All I know is that the assistant commissioner has expressed a desire to have a word with you.”

Petrella gaped at him.

“I’m not pulling your leg. You’d better get a move on. He’s a bad man to keep waiting.”

“I understand,” said Romer, his long, hatchet face expressionless, “that there have been developments in the Binford Reservoir Case since the hearing at the Central Criminal Court. I’m told that you have been the officer most actively engaged, and it seemed to me that the best way of bringing myself up to date was by having a word with you. If we’re going to change our minds about Howton, we haven’t a lot of time to do it in.”

Petrella made what he hoped was going to be a non-committal noise. It sounded so terrible that he swallowed it, half uttered.

“What I’d like you to do is to tell me exactly what you think did take place. You needn’t waste time over the background. I’ve read the file.”

So Petrella told him. Once he had got started, it was not difficult. He had told it to himself so often that it came tripping out like a favourite story, almost too word-perfect for complete conviction. At the end of it Romer said, “So your view is that Howton was there that night, but that he turned up too late to do anything but collect some oddments of jewellery – and to put himself on the spot by selling them later.”

“Yes, sir. The people who gave evidence of sales by Howton all spoke of the last two months. And the pieces involved were quite small. Mr Robins, for instance, only gave him a hundred pounds for six of them. Even at the usual rate of discount, that’s not big stuff.”

“Your idea is that Ricketts had already sold anything that was worthwhile. And that if we took the witnesses who had failed to identify Howton and confronted them with Ricketts they would identify him.”

“I think so, yes, sir.”

“And that the fingerprint found on the gun will turn out to be Ricketts’. Wrongly filed here, incidentally, as belonging to Bancroft.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And that the people who identified the gun as being Howton’s weren’t entirely reliable witnesses.”

Petrella could easily have gone wrong there. But the last few months had taught him a lot of lessons. He said, “It was a very common type of gun, sir. It would be quite easy to be mistaken about a thing like that.”

“Yes,” said Romer. “It would. The Crown, on the other hand, maintains that Howton did arrive in time. That he shot both Ritchie and his wife, and disposed of the bodies. The facts which have now come to light about Ricketts living with Mrs Ritchie – and living on her – affords an explanation, which was missing before, of why he ran away when it came to the pinch. They don’t necessarily make him a murderer.”

“No, sir.”

“In fact, there are two theories. And there’s only one way of discovering which is right. We’ve got to find Ricketts.” He unfolded his long body and took it across to the bow window which looked down on Westminster Pier and the pleasure boats.

“And you have a photograph, and you think he may be living with his sister, who has a deformity of the leg.”

“And collected matchboxes,” said Petrella. “According to Bancroft.”

“Well, we’ve got home with less than that before now. We’ll see what we can do. Thank you.”

As Petrella turned to go, Romer added, “I nearly forgot. There’s been a disciplinary complaint against you over your conduct in this case.” He picked up a thin, Oxford-blue folder from his desk. “I have read the papers. I have an overriding discretion in all such matters. And I have decided that, although you acted in disobedience of orders, those orders were not, themselves, very sensible. I have given instructions for the record to be destroyed.”

Petrella could think of nothing to say.

“Don’t imagine, however, that I condone direct disobedience. It’s a thing you can get away with only once in your professional career. Always supposing you intend to continue in your career. Superintendent Haxtell said something about your resigning.”

“No, sir,” said Petrella. “That was a mistake.”

“I’m glad about that,” said Romer.

On his way out Petrella ran into Sergeant Blinder, who said, “Oh, there you are. I understand you’ve been upsetting the Fingerprint System, now. If you’ve thought up something better, you might let me know.”

“Hadn’t you heard?” said Petrella. “It’s all being changed.”

“All–?”

“The whole thing. Fingerprints are out. Everyone is to be classified by their electronic reflective index. The new American system. It’s quite infallible–”

“Tcha!” said Sergeant Blinder.

Petrella went on his way. Outside Scotland Yard, between the western entrance and the Cenotaph, there stands a public house where generations of policemen have slaked their thirst. Petrella found Sergeant Dodds propping up the saloon bar.

“What cheer, Patrick,” said Dodds. “Wattle it be?”

“Oh, half a pint,” said Petrella cautiously.

“Pint of bitter for my friend,” said Dodds. “I’ve got some news for you.”

“You’ve decided to turn over a new leaf.”

“I’ve turned over so many of those,” said Dodds, “that I’ve pretty nearly finished the book. No – it’s Chris. He’s handed in his cards.”

“Chris?”

“Who else? Said he couldn’t afford to stay on a minute longer. His publishers are roaring to go, and he’s getting a personality spot on TV. It’s all fixed. Well, I ask you! Bungho.”

“Bungho,” said Petrella.

“His first book’s out in the autumn.
Murder, Mayhem, and Mirth
it’s called. I get two mentions in it. ‘My old friend Albert Dodds agreed with me’ – page ninety-two, and ‘Sergeant Dodds expressed a contrary view’ – page a hundred and four.”

“I believe you’re making the whole thing up.”

“Cross my heart, I’m not. It’ll be in the
Gazette
tomorrow.” Sergeant Dodds picked up three darts from the counter and flung one of them idly into the dartboard. “One case I don’t mind betting he leaves out though, that’s the Binford Reservoir Case. Between you and me, it wasn’t really one of our best.”

The second dart followed the first, landing a fraction of an inch from it.

A sharp-looking character removed himself from the end of the bar, rolled forward, and said, “Either of you gentlemen interested in a game of darts?”

“Well, I’m not much of a hand at it,” said Sergeant Dodds, throwing the third dart which, curiously enough, missed the board altogether. “But I don’t mind having a game if you insist.”

The sharp gentleman produced a well-worn set of darts from a leather container, and threw one into the centre of the board. It landed in the 25. Sergeant Dodds, without taking apparent aim, threw his dart into the 50, and said, “That gives me the start. I usually play for five bob a leg, ten bob on the game. OK?”

Petrella left hastily.

To all Stations of the Metropolitan Police Force and to all Chief Constables of Borough and County Forces: Most Urgent. It is desired to trace a lady, at one time passing under the name of Eileen Joyce Harman. Thought to be between fifty-five and sixty-five years of age and to be suffering from a deformity of one leg necessitating the wearing of a surgical boot…

Tuesday was a difficult day. Even Haxtell had little idea of what was happening and, being a wise man, turned himself grimly to routine. The successive impact of Corinne Hart and the Reservoir Case had disrupted the divisional detective work at Highside and a half dozen of more or less routine jobs were piled up for his consideration.

Petrella found it impossible to cultivate the same detachment. The fact that nearly three dozen milk bottles were missing from Argos Road and the coin box of a telephone kiosk on Helenwood Common had been broken open and rifled failed to monopolize his attention. In the afternoon he gave up trying and made an excuse to slip over to Hounds Green.

Mr Lundgren was surprised, but evidently pleased, to see him.

“I’ve been meaning to get hold of you,” he said. “My wife and I were wondering if you could join us in a game of bridge one evening.”

Petrella said there was nothing he would like more, but did not deceive the kindly resident engineer.

“You didn’t come over here to talk about bridge,” he said. “What’s on your mind?”

“It’s Ricketts,” said Petrella.

“You’ve found out where he is?”

“No,” said Petrella. “I mean, yes. I can’t tell you anything about this new development, not just at the moment. What I wanted to do was to have a look at the things Ricketts left behind. I remember you told me you’d got them.”

“They’re in the basement, here. You can look at them now if you’d like. There’s not a lot. We’ll pick the key up from the desk. It struck me at the time as rather odd–”

“What was that?”

“Well, I rather gathered, from what you told me and what I read in the papers, that the idea was that Ricketts was so upset by the goings-on that night that he left in a flurry. If that’s right, isn’t it remarkable he left so little behind? Wait there a moment, while I switch the light on?”

“Ricketts was a remarkable man,” said Petrella. “I don’t believe he did anything in a flurry. A hurry, perhaps, not a flurry. I imagine that his departure was most carefully planned. I don’t mean that he knew exactly when he was going to leave, but he always visualized that he might have to pull out sometime, and quickly.”

“That’s exactly the impression you’d get from looking through his things. He didn’t leave a stitch of clothing except the stuff which was actually at the laundry. You’ll find everything he did leave in that big packing case. And there’s really nothing that you could call a personal belonging. Just sheets and pillowcases, and two sets of curtains and some crockery and cooking stuff. Most of it bought from local shops. I imagine. In fact, I remember he had to have all his meals out, to start with. So he can’t have brought much household stuff with him when he came. That rug was in the front of the fire in the sitting-room. Not in very good taste, is it? Another odd thing. The man who cleared up for us commented on it. He didn’t find a single scrap of paper. Even the waste-paper basket had been emptied.”

“It was too much to expect that he’d make any obvious mistakes. I did have a faint hope that as his actual departure was so quick he might have forgotten something–”

“We found these gardening things in the shed. He was a keen gardener. Did a lot of digging. And I seem to remember that he was a bit of a handyman, too. He had a plane and a good set of chisels. But those seem to have gone with him. What–?”

He broke off. His audience was no longer with him. Petrella was on his knees in front of the now nearly empty packing case. Slowly he dipped into it, slowly drew forth a pink vase, ornamented with tiny green oyster shells; shells which formed the words “
A Present from Whitstable”.

“By God,” he said at last. “It’s a chance.”

By twelve o’clock the next morning the chance had grown into a bare possibility.

Superintendent Denmark, the chief officer of the Whitstable and Herne Bay Constabulary, had started with considerable scepticism about the whole project.

“Millions of souvenirs like that sold every year,” he said. “All it means is that this man knew somebody who had once spent a holiday at Whitstable. Isn’t that right?”

“It’s only a chance, of course,” said Petrella.

“Or he may have spent a holiday here himself. Of course, we’ll do what we can. I saw the teletype. Wasn’t much real information there, was there now?”

“It was all we had,” said Petrella humbly. He was in no position to command. The successful working out of his hunch depended entirely on the co-operation of this fiery little man with the ginger-coloured moustache adhering like a blob of bitter marmalade to his aggressive upper lip.

“What did occur to me,” said Petrella – “I expect you’d had very much the same idea – was that we might get at it through the doctor’s. People who have a deformity like that have to have a regular check-up. It isn’t the foot itself. It’s the hip–”

“Yes. That wouldn’t be too difficult. We could get a list from the doctor’s.”

It turned out to be quite a long list. Fortunately a number of candidates could be disposed of at once. Either they were the wrong age, or the wrong sex, or other disqualifying circumstances arose.

“Can’t be Mrs Toomey,” said Denmark. “She’s related to my mother. A most respectable old lady.”

Mrs Toomey was struck off the list.

By the afternoon there were three real possibilities left. All of them were ladies of past middle age, about whose background little was known. And all of them had at least one gentleman of approximately the same age recently come to stay with them, in the capacity of family, lodger, or paying guest.

“Well, there you are,” said Denmark. “Short of calling on them, I don’t know how you’re going to pick the winner. What’s he done, by the way? I ought to have asked you that before.”

“The known charges,” said Petrella, “are double murder and bigamy. There might be further charges of larceny to follow.”

“I shouldn’t worry about any further charges myself,” said Denmark. “If you’re going visiting, you’d better have one of my men with you.”

“If we do find him, sir, we shall have to go gently. He’s a very clever man, very alert, and ready to disappear at the drop of a hat. I think, if you don’t mind, I’d like to make a little preliminary reconnaissance first. I promise I won’t move without letting you know.”

The next two hours were busy, and at the end of them he had dismissed Mrs Cartland from his calculations. He had seen the male relative who had recently joined her at Whitstable, and he had turned out to be a pale young man, very little older than Petrella himself. On the other hand, as between Mrs Williams and Mrs Duhamel, there was still very little to choose. Both were of the right age, both wore undeniable surgical boots, both took in occasional summer boarders and both had been joined “about two months ago” by a gentleman a little younger than themselves.

It was at the general stores, where he was pursuing his inquiries in the character of a prospective lodger, that a genuine inspiration visited him.

“I wonder,” he said, “if that would be the Mrs Duhamel I knew in Yarmouth. It’s not a common name, is it?”

The assistant agreed that it wasn’t a common name. He imagined it might be French.

“One thing I do remember about her. If it’s the same woman, that is. She had a fine collection of matchboxes. “

The assistant shook his head. He had never heard anything like that about Mrs Duhamel. As Petrella turned away disappointed, he added, “Of course, if it had been Mrs Williams now–”

“Does Mrs Williams collect?”

“
Does
Mrs Williams collect,” said the assistant. “There’s scarcely a day goes by but she’s in here bothering us for a new sort. Of course, we’re very sorry for her, with her infirmity, poor lady, but sometimes when we’re rushed with customers–”

But Petrella was already out of the shop. At the eleventh hour, after all rational chances had failed, after all the favourites had tumbled, a real, genuine, hundred-to-one outsider had come romping home. He wished Bill Borden had been there. They could have had a drink on it.

“It certainly sounds hopeful,” said Denmark. “Now let’s do a bit of thinking. Bay View – that’s the line of small houses actually on the front. Number 36 would be pretty nearly the end one. There’s an open stretch of sand dunes at one side. We’ll have to guard that. And a sort of pleasure park – it’s shut just now – at the back. Two men there. And one man along the sea wall on the other side. We needn’t worry about the front. He won’t swim. Not in this weather.”

Petrella was glad to see that the superintendent was taking the job seriously. He had a feeling about Ricketts which was beginning to border dangerously on the superstitious; that he was no ordinary man but a creature with curious instincts of his own, attuned to danger and sensitive to threats.

“Do you think he’s carrying a gun?”

“I don’t know, sir. He could be. He’s used one before.”

“I think we’ll keep quiet about that. Don’t want to make my people nervous. Now, then – as soon as we’re all in position we’ll walk up the front steps and knock at the door. You’ve got that photograph. Think you can identify him?”

“Oh, yes,” said Petrella. “I’m sure about that.”

He couldn’t have said why he was so sure.

It was five o’clock by this time. The wind, which had been blowing great guns all day, had blown the clouds out of the sky, and a pale sun was now looking down on a wrinkled grey sea.

As Petrella and the superintendent approached No. 36 the front door, which stood at the head of a little flight of steps, opened gently, and Ricketts came out. He was wearing a soft cap, of old-fashioned cut, a muffler, twisted twice round his neck, with the ends tucked well down inside his coat, and he was carrying a stick. Petrella had not the slightest doubt who it was. He had made no sign to the superintendent, but the superintendent knew, too. The two men walked on past the house. Out of the tail of his eye Petrella saw Ricketts come down the front steps, and turn towards the town.

As soon as they were out of sight they turned too. Three of the men they had posted were visible. The superintendent waved them after him, and hoped they would understand.

Pausing every now and then to take deep breaths of sea air, and once to purchase a packet of cigarettes, Ricketts made his way eastward with the concentration of a man who is following a known routine.

“Further he gets from home the better,” said the superintendent. “We’ll take him when he turns.”

But Ricketts showed no intention of turning. He walked steadily forward, keeping the sea on his left. Ahead lay the old harbour. Beyond that, the wastes of Tankerton.

When he reached the harbour, Ricketts swung left, out on to the short stone pier, and stood for an instant at the far end of it, outlined against a sky now lemon yellow under the setting sun, then turned back.

The two men barred his way.

“Excuse me,” said the superintendent, “but is your name Ricketts?”

The man had stopped, a yard from them. He made no attempt to answer. He was looking to right and left, weighing chances, calculating risks. They might have had the world to themselves.

“Look out!” yelled the superintendent, and threw himself forward, as Petrella ducked forward; and the next moment rose, shamefacedly, from his knees. For what the man had produced from his pocket was an ordinary cherrywood pipe, which he proceeded calmly to fill.

“What’s the big idea?” he said. “Weaving about like that. Yes. My name’s Ricketts. Who the devil are you?”