Young Petrella (6 page)

He had also seen something else. A John the Baptist in beard and rags, motionless at the end of the street.

“Someone put the finger on us,” he said. “And I’m wondering just who.”

“Must have been that flickering prophet,” said one of the others.

“Could be,” said Len. “Might have been young Timmy.”

They looked up to see if he was joking; his face was expressionless as a washed dish.

“Why would it be Timmy?”

“I didn’t say it was,” said Len. “I said it might be. He’s friends with that dick, ent he? I seen ’em talking the other day. He’s so young he doesn’t think what he’s saying, perhaps.”

Timmy Harrington came in at this moment. He usually took the route across the roof and through the skylight, because he was still young enough to enjoy climbing for its own sake. This time he was in a hurry, so he came up through the trapdoor.

“I did what you said,” he explained. “I watched the back door and slipped by when the old woman—”

“Cut the narrative,” said Len. “Tell us what you found.”

Timmy, deflated, said, “You know all that old clobber he wears, rags and pieces. Well, he’s got a nice suit in his wardrobe. And shirts and shoes and socks. And – and something else.”

He held his right hand out and they crowded round him. It was the last, the ultimate argument. A small, old-fashioned, blue-plated pistol.

“And it’s loaded,” said Timmy.

“I’d better look after that,” said Len. No one demurred. He slipped it into his pocket. “What’s your idea about this geezer, Timmy?”

“I think he’s a copper,” said Timmy. “You know – a ghost. Someone they’ve planted here. . .”

There was an uneasy silence in the loft. It was exactly as if a shadow had stalked across the room.

“What say we lie low for a bit, Len?” said one of the boys.

“Nuts,” said Len. The weight in his pocket gave him confidence. “He’s no copper. He’s a cheap stoolie. When I’m finished with him he’ll wish he was back wherever it was he came from. First thing, we want to find out what he’s up to. Right? We take it in turns. One of us watch him all the time. Use your loaf. Keep out of sight. We’ll soon see what he’s at. Then we can fix him.”

If the Prophet knew that he was being watched, he gave no sign of it. Most of his day he spent, as before, drifting quietly along the pavements of Pond End and Highside, going no further north than the Main Circular Road, sometimes dropping south as far as the railway terminals and goods depots of Sonning Town.

But most of the time he spent with the children and they, with the instinct of the streets, seemed to realise that he meant them no harm. Hour after hour they would follow him, an early and unusual Father Christmas, carrying no sacks of toys, but big with infinite possibilities of mystery.

“He talks to them,” said Petrella.

“As long as he only talks,” said big Sergeant Gwilliam.

“The matron of the Highside Children’s Home got a bit worried at first. He hangs round there a lot. But from what I can make out he does the children no harm.”

“Loitering with intent?”

Petrella considered the matter, but shook his head. Although, as a policeman, he had a well-founded distrust of any unknown character who hung about for long doing nothing, this didn’t make sense.

“There’s nothing to steal,” he said. “The place is just full of kids and beds and bedpans.”

“Different thing five years ago when it was a private house. Old Sir Louis Borderer. Then it
would
have been worth a go.”

Petrella cast his mind back.

“He was the collector wasn’t he? Died some years ago. A lot of his stuff went to a museum.”

“That’s right,” said Sergeant Gwilliam. “It was before my time. I was in South London then. Why?”

“Was there ever a burglary there? A big one?”

“I expect so,” said Gwilliam. “There was plenty worth stealing. Records would be able to tell you. Why?”

“Just an idea,” said Petrella.

Sergeant Gwilliam looked at him suspiciously. He distrusted young detective constables who got ideas. Petrella went off to look for the Bird, who had been somewhat elusive lately. He had a feeling that some useful information might by now be forthcoming from that source.

The matron at Highside Children’s Home was a single-minded extravert. A daily life spent in grappling with local authorities, keeping together an underpaid staff, and composing the difficulties of a hundred children left her with little time for reflection.

There came a time in every day, though. The last half hour before she sought her own bed; when her charges were asleep, and the telephone had stopped wrangling. She liked to spend it out in the summerhouse. It was a beautiful little baroque temple, lovingly transported, stone by stone, from its native Arezzo by the enthusiastic Sir Louis, as a wedding present for his third wife. In it he had placed, as a sort of table, a pediment of great antiquity, unearthed at Capua. A heavy square of old, hewn stone. On it the matron would place her knitting bag, her spare glasses, and her evening newspaper. Beside it she erected her deckchair.

Her thoughts, as usual, were on the problems of the day. That funny old man. She was inclined to believe the children, when they said he meant no harm.

“Sometimes he talks to us,” Lizzie Ferrers had said, “sometimes he asks us questions.” What about? “Oh, anything. Getting up time. Meal time. Bedtime. The habits of the staff. The routine of the home.” Very odd, thought the matron. Looking up, she saw him.

Clear, in the bright moonlight. Then he was gone. He had dodged in among the trees on the far side of the lawn. Her first thought was to go back and ring for the police. Being a resolute woman she decided to wait for a moment, and watch. The back door of the summerhouse led directly to the garden door of the house and there was no chance of being cut off. And there was something else, too. The matron had spent part of her professional life in a home for old people, and as the Prophet came out again into the moonlight at the edge of the trees, she noticed that he was holding himself and moving like a man of half his age.

The next thing she saw was that he was not alone. There were flitting figures behind him, among the trees. Three – no, four – men following him.

She decided that it was time to move. As she turned, the attack developed. Two men flung themselves at the Prophet, who whirled to meet them. A twisting knot of figures went to the ground with a thud which could be heard clear across the intervening distance.

As the matron panted up to the garden door, she received a further shock. A police car was already coming up the drive. Sergeant Gwilliam jumped from it before it had stopped.

“They’re over there.” She pointed. “Fighting. Quick, and you’ll get them.”

“They won’t get out without wings,” said the Sergeant. “We’ve had the place surrounded an hour.”

He disappeared with his followers at the double. The matron went in and mixed herself a strong drink of brandy from the emergency store.

Chief Inspector Haxtell counted up the score later that evening with Sergeant Gwilliam and Petrella, who had got too close to a flailing Len and had picked up a black eye and a broken nose. They were in matron’s sitting room, which had been turned into a temporary first-aid post.

“First,” said the Chief Inspector, “we’ve got the Prophet, alias Dicky Bird, alias ninety-five other things, who came out of Parkhurst three weeks ago, where he’d been doing a long stretch for burglary. As soon as we get him out of the hospital we’ll charge him with – what?”

“Being on enclosed premises,” suggested Sergeant Gwilliam.

“I suppose so. I take it that it’s some sort of felony to try and re-steal stolen goods.”

“Would you very much mind explaining what it’s all about,” said the matron.

“Certainly, ma’am. This house used to belong to Sir Louis Borderer. Just before his death Bird broke in and cleaned up Sir Louis’ collection of Italian Court jewellery – good old-fashioned stuff, gold and diamonds mostly. He was picked up two days later, and charged. Most of the loot was never discovered. The police took all his known hiding places to pieces, brick by brick. No good. It was even hinted that he might get a remission if he talked. He preferred to take the full rap. He reckoned the stuff was safe enough. It had never left the grounds. He’d lifted that pedestal in the summerhouse, and shoved it in the hollow underneath.”

“Do you mean to say,” said the matron, “that sort of table thing I put my knitting on?”

“That’s right, ma’am. Tonight, when he saw the game was up, he told us. I reckon he calculated we couldn’t put him away twice for the same job. Which may be right.”

“And those others?”

“Ah,” said the Chief Inspector. “There we’re on much firmer ground. Breaking in with intent to commit violence. And the leader was armed. He’d a loaded gun in his pocket. That ought to take care of
him
for a bit.”

“Well,” said the matron, “all I can say is that it’s very lucky you happened to be there.”

“Very lucky indeed,” said Haxtell blandly.

Later that evening he talked to Petrella.

“It came out very nicely, didn’t it?” said Petrella, happily. “They’d left young Timmy outside, on guard, and he got away. We might pull him in too – but I think it’d be better, don’t you, to leave him out of this charge?”

“If you say so,” said Haxtell. “Any particular reason?”

“Well, they’re bound to work out that
someone
gave them away,” said Petrella. “Their first idea was the Prophet. But of course, as it turned out, it couldn’t have been him. Then, I think, they suspected Timmy. They knew the boy was friendly with me. If we let him off, they’ll be sure they were right.”

“Yes,” said the Chief Inspector, slowly. “Yes, I suppose that is the best way. May lead to trouble in the future.”

It would lead to a lot worse trouble, thought Petrella, if Len ever realised that his wife was the Bird.

To Detective Constable Patrick Petrella the section called Highside was the least interesting part of the manor. It stretched, like the lives of its inhabitants, from the Lying-in Hospital at the foot of the hill to the public cemetery at the top; a honeycomb of tight, respectable streets constructed, as an act of faith, out of yellow brick and second quality slates by a tight, respectable builder.

The backbone of Highside was Haig Road, and Petrella was walking up it to see a Mr. Gosport who might be able to give him some information about two other men, who might know something about alleged irregularities at the railway depot. A thunderstorm had been hanging over North London all day. The evening was heavy with undischarged artillery; and his feet kept reminding Petrella that he had been on top of them for fifteen hours.

Ahead of him, out of a side road, came Sir Douglas Haig. That was what it seemed like at the time. It was all there, the neat, compact figure, the clipped grey moustache, the kindly, ruthless eye; the eye of Bapaume and Passchendaele, the eye of Ancre and the Somme.

He was walking well, for a man of his age. But that was right, too, thought Petrella. Had not the Field Marshal kept his mind and his figure to the last? Suppose that, as a preliminary penance, great men were condemned to visit every street and square and public house named after them. The Duke of Wellington and Prince Albert would have walked a few miles and drunk a few pints before they won their way to paradise.

When he reached the top of the hill the Field Marshal had disappeared. No, as you were. Petrella, standing on the corner of the pavement, could see his head. He had gone into the cemetery, and was sitting – or was he kneeling? – by one of the new white marble crosses.

Petrella trudged on. Mr. Gosport was not at home. Mrs. Gosport explained that he was on nights now. He might be back in time for breakfast. It all depended on shifts. Or that was what
he
said. She had no way of checking on him. Sometimes he said he’d been working a double shift and came home full of beer. Once she’d found a girl’shairclip wedged in his top pocket. He hadn’t tried
that
lark twice.

Petrella listened with a quarter of his mind and made sympathetic noises at the right places.

When he got out he went back to the cemetery. The grey man was gone. Petrella found a new cross and squatted beside it to read the spidery, gothic lettering.

“Arthur Millichip. The summons came for him in his 84th year. At rest awaiting the last call.”

A boy and a girl were walking together on the pavement opposite. Petrella couldn’t see them, but he heard the boy say, “Swing in a lovely centre and Sam just nodded it into the net.” The girl said, “Go on.” She even managed to sound interested.

Courting, thought Petrella. He won’t get away with spiels like that once he’s married.

He could have gone home himself, to supper and bed. So far as he kept any hours he was long past the end of his duty, and the house where he lodged with Mrs. Catt was only two streets off. Instead, he trudged back to the police station.

As he was climbing the stairs to the CID room he heard Sergeant Gwilliam laughing. It was the sort of laugh which took more than a locked door to contain it. There was sixteen stone of Sergeant Gwilliam, but very little of it was fat, and he had played rugby football for the police in the golden pre-war days when the blue jerseys had carried all before them in London Club football; and twice for Wales.

“What’s the joke?” said Petrella.

“Guess who just come in?”

“I’m too tired to guess.”

“Ginny Lewis.”

“Came in, or was brought in?” asked Petrella. Ginny was a hard character, past his first evil youth; a middle-aged bully grown callous in wrongdoing.

“Walked in on his own feet. The joke is what he came here for.”

Petrella could think of nothing save force which would bring Ginny to a police station.

“He came,” said Sergeant Gwilliam impressively, “to see could he have police protection.”

Petrella laughed too, but absent-mindedly. Something was nibbling at the edges of memory.