He had operated by day a genuine, and indeed profitable, house agency near Staines, and was reputed to have a proportion of his own gains invested in house property. It was these gains, and their precise whereabouts, which had exercised the minds of the police – and certain large insurance companies – when Mr. Kelling had at last been trapped and had walked off, a silent, grey-faced ghost, to begin a long sentence; a sentence which had ended, prematurely, eighteen months later, in the hospital ward at Reading Gaol.
“Yes. I remember he had a wife,” said Petrella. “No one thought she had anything to do with his illegal activities. The idea was that he used her as cover. She was part of his respectable background. She didn’t know anything.”
“It doesn’t look as if that’s quite right, now,” said Wilmot. “At least, the boys don’t seem to think so.”
“And what do the boys think?”
“It’s like this,” said Wilmot. “She lives in this house in Crayborne Street, down by the river. She came there about a year ago. It’s a sort of boarding house. This Mrs. Williams keeps it.”
“Who’s a friend of your present girlfriend’s aunt.”
“That’s right,” said Wilmot. “And there’s no call to say present, as if I changed ’em each week. This one’s permanent.”
“I’m sorry,” said Petrella. “Go on.”
“Well, every month or so, Ma Barker gets behind with her rent. Mrs. Williams lets her run a bit, then tells her the old story. How she can’t wait for her money for ever, and there’s plenty of people would jump at the room, and so on, and Ma Barker says, ‘All right, you shall have your money. I’m expecting some dividends in a day or two.’
“And in about a week, sure enough, she comes along and pays everything, in pound notes; only the funny thing is – she never seems to get any letters at all.”
“I see,” said Petrella. “And do the boys follow her round the whole time, or just sometimes? And which boys are they?”
“It’s Larry Michaels – he’s the one lost an ear. He was in a circus and had it bitten off by a sealion. And his wife’s in it, too. A big girl. I’m told she was the holder-upper of an all-girl pyramid before she retired. The coffee-coloured boy’s called Sam Lazzarone, and there’s three or four others. The others came in it with Sam, I guess. He was with the Elephants before they got bust up.”
“Yes,” said Petrella. He knew enough, now, about South London to realise that these Elephants had no connection with sealions and circuses. “Not a very nice crowd.”
“And they don’t have to watch the whole time, either, because Larry’s got a tipoff in the house. An old party on the top floor that Mrs. Williams is sweet on.”
“I see,” said Petrella. He was silent for a minute, visualising Mrs. Barker, centre of this little net of intrigue; watched by sharp and hungry eyes, waiting for her to lead them to an incalculable prize, nothing more nor less than Andy Kelling’s treasure house. What would happen when they got there? The Michaels were an unknown quantity, but if Sam had brought in his Elephant and Castle crowd, there was trouble ahead for all of them.
“Does she know she’s being watched?”
“That’s just what no one’s sure about,” said Wilmot. “She doesn’t give any sign she knows, but maybe she’s not so crazy. She could just be dead cunning. Last two or three times, when she’s run short of money, she’s started house hunting.”
“House hunting?”
“That’s right. Her old man was a house agent, remember? I expect his buddies know Ma Barker. I expect they think she’s a harmless old coot. They give her orders to view. Last time,” Wilmot smiled, “she looked at forty seven different houses – all over the place – some in London, some out of it – forty seven in three days! And when she’d run ’em right off their feet, she slipped ’em, on the third evening. And next day Mrs. Williams got her money.”
Petrella said, “If they can’t follow her, do you think we could?”
“Well, I got an idea about that,” said Wilmot. “But I haven’t quite worked it out, yet.”
“Don’t do anything silly,” said Petrella.
He had useful contacts himself among the men who let and sell houses, and he spent long hours with busy professionals, poring over their lists and learning something of the ways of their trade.
“Most of us know Mrs. Barker,” said Sam Tallybeare, who ran five estate agencies under five different names. “And we knew her old man, too, and liked him. Yes, I know he was a crook. So when his missus wants to go on the prowl, we’re willing to oblige.
“She might even buy a house some day. You never know. And she’s not just a buyer. She could be a seller. She’s got at least three houses of her own. Did you know that?”
“I certainly did not,” said Petrella slowly.
“It’s not a thing many people know about,” said Sam. “And I only know because—” He got up, shut the door, and came back and sat down again at his desk. Petrella divined that he was giving himself time to think.
“Could you tell me the names of the houses her husband owned?”
Again Sam Tallybeare hesitated.
“I’ve a reason for asking,” said Petrella. “And if you can keep your mouth shut, I’ll tell you the story. Or I’ll tell you as much as I know of it. It’s a story without an end, as yet.”
When he had finished, Sam waddled across to a filing cabinet, which he unlocked with a key from his own ring.
“In as far as he trusted anyone,” he said, “I think Andrew Kelling trusted me. And I’m breaking the rule of a lifetime in giving away what was a professional confidence. However, there’s a time for everything. Even for breaking the rules. Here you are. Andy owned three houses at least. One near Heston – when the airport was built, there were a lot of big houses going at knockdown prices. Another’s at Chertsey, and the third’s at Egham. The first two are pretty useless, in bad repair, and too big, anyway. The Egham one’s different. It’s actually on the river. I’ve had a lot of people asking for that, but the old woman won’t sell.”
“Then they’re hers?”
“That’s right. He left her everything.”
Petrella took further particulars of the three houses and went back to Gabriel Street. He found Wilmot waiting for him.
“I think I’ve got something,” he said. “I told you I had an idea. Well, what it was, my girl’s got a bit pally with Ma Barker. Linda says she’s not really crazy. Not all of the time. She talks a bit funny, about Bunny—”
“Just who is Bunny?”
“He’s her son. The only one they had. He died when he was kid. But she never believed he was dead, see? As far as she was concerned, he just went straight on growing up. Sometimes she talks about him to Linda. Tells about how well he’s doing now – runs a garage of his own. And how popular he is with the girls.”
“He seems to be quite a boy.”
“He’s all that,” said Wilmot. “She told Linda, the other day, that she ought to hurry up and marry him.”
“Doesn’t she know Linda’s engaged to you?”
“She knows that,” said Wilmot, “but sometimes I think she thinks I’m Bunny – sounds mad, doesn’t it?”
“Not at all,” said Petrella. “She goes for Linda. Linda’s the sort of girl she’d like her Bunny to marry. Linda’s going to marry you, so you’re Bunny. That part’s easy.”
Wilmot shook his head. “She’s certainly fond of Linda. She wants to give her a present. Linda once said something to her about a scarf pin, and now the old girl comes out and says, ‘I’ll buy you one’ Linda tried to ride her off. She didn’t want to take anything off her. Then this morning, she said to Linda, ‘I’m taking you out shopping next Wednesday afternoon. See you keep it free.’ Next Wednesday afternoon. Quite definite.”
“That fits nicely,” said Petrella. “We’re Thursday now. That means she’ll probably start going places over the weekend. But that’ll be camouflage. She doesn’t really plan to go near her cache until �
�� say – Monday. All right? We’ll let Larry and his boys get the run around first. Then we’ll step in at the finish. And I’ll tell you something else. When we do get to the finish, it’ll turn out to be Heston, Chertsey, or Egham.”
Wilmot stared at him.
“I’ve been working on this, too,” said Petrella, coldly. It turned out to be Egham.
The house stood outside the town at the end of a lane, which is a parking place for picnickers’ cars in summertime, but in early spring was nothing but a deserted avenue of dripping poplars bounded on one side by wasteland where the swans nested, and on the other by three large properties, all with their own river frontages. Mrs. Barker’s “Green Leas” was the one which lay farthest from the main road; and a bend in the lane hid it even from its neighbour.
“Lovely place for a murder,” said Wilmot. He and Petrella, shivering in their raincoats, were occupying a more or less dry ditch on the landward side of the property. They had been there for two hours.
During this time they had seen Mrs. Barker leave the house twice and make her way down to a large boathouse on the river’s edge. She had come back, on the second occasion, with an armful of wood; and a trickle of white smoke from the chimney had indicated that she, at least, was contriving to keep warm.
Now that dusk had fallen, a single light twinkled from one of the front windows. The electricity must have been cut off, and Petrella diagnosed a hurricane lamp.
“She making a night of it?” said Wilmot.
“If she does, we do,” said Petrella between clenched teeth. “See if you can get a quick look at that boathouse before it’s too dark. Go along the ditch and you’ll probably find a wooden landing stage; most of these riverside gardens have them. Keep your nose well down and no one will see you.”
Wilmot crawled off, glad of the excuse to move. He was away half an hour.
“It’s quite a place,” he reported. “Keep your voice down.” “She can’t hear us.”
“It’s not Mrs. Barker I’m thinking about,” said Petrella, his mouth close to Wilmot’s ear. “The opposition’s arrived. Three of them, in a van. One’s sitting in it, up the track. The other two are in the bushes, over on the other side. Now go on, but very quietly.”
“It’s a sort of boatshed and dry dock,” said Wilmot. “I got in a window at the back. It’s two levels – a basement and a ground floor, and it’s big enough for a motor launch. The bottom part’s dry now, like an empty swimming bath, with planks over it, if you follow me.”
“I think so,” said Petrella. “They’d float the boat in, then shut off the side next to the river, and pump the water out. Did you see anything that looked like a hiding place?”
“There was a lot of wood in the passage. And some steps down and a sort of iron door, like in a ship.”
“A bulkhead?”
“That’s right. I couldn’t open that. Then I looked in the upstairs part. That was empty. Just wooden walls and loose planks over the dock part to stop you falling in. I could have got them up, I expect, but it would have taken a bit of time.”
Petrella considered, shifting slowly from one numb foot to the other. It sounded like the makings of a nice hiding place. Supposing you made your cache actually at the bottom of the dry dock. If a search was threatened, all you’d have to do would be to turn a handle and let the river back in. Who would think of looking under six feet of water?
He explained his ideas to Wilmot, who said, “What do we do? Go and look?”
“What we do,” said Petrella, “is wait. Wait right here and see what happens.”
Wilmot groaned softly.
Half an hour later, Mrs. Barker appeared at the front door. She carried a storm lantern in her hand, and came down the steps, and after a moment of hesitation swung round right handed, and made for the boatshed.
“Come on,” said Petrella, and, “ouch,” as the sudden movement restored the circulation to his feet. “You lead; you know the way.”
He followed Wilmot down the ditch and out on to the wooden jetty. Evening had merged into night, and a pale, cold moon shone down on the water which ran by, fast and silent, inches from their noses as they crawled. It was no summer river, but spring water, dangerous and swollen with melted snow and ice.
Wilmot breathed, “That’s the window; I left the catch off. Shall I go in?”
Petrella thought about that. He was loath to split his tiny force, but a man inside might be useful.
“All right,” he said, “watch your step.”
Wilmot disappeared with the speed and silence of a cat into a larder, and Petrella settled down again to wait.
The other two men were not so clever at night stalking, and he heard them ten yards off. As they came out into the moonlight he recognised long Larry Michaels, and guessed that the dark shadow with him was Sam Lazzarone. At the door they halted for a moment and listened.
When the noise came, it broke the silence with startling clarity. Someone was hammering.
The noise shook the two men into action. Larry tried the door and found it locked. That won’t stop ’em, thought Petrella. Their blood’s really up, now. I only hope they don’t come round this end looking for a window.
The moonlight glinted on something in Sam’s hand; there was a loud click and the door opened. The two men went in. The hammering had ceased.
Petrella got up again from where he had been crouching and applied his eye once more to the window. A torch came on for a moment from low down, and Petrella saw the iron bulkhead door that Wilmot had spoken of. It was ajar.
Wilmot had said that he had tried to open it and failed. That looked as if Mrs. Barker was now inside the dry dock itself, although the sound of hammering had come from higher up.
For some time nothing happened. The next person who came into view was Wilmot. Wilmot, in that torch flash, had apparently also seen the open bulkhead, and it was clear that curiosity had overcome discretion. He was now inching down the stairs, and soon had his eyes at the opening.
Petrella had stopped calculating; there were too many factors. He had stopped worrying; there was too much to worry about. He almost stopped breathing.
When it happened, it all happened quickly.
From the shadows behind Wilmot arose the avenging form of Mrs. Barker. Wilmot heard her move, jumped to his feet, and swung round. Mrs. Barker hit him a clean, fast, swinging blow under the jaw, and he went down in a heap. Petrella gaped. Wilmot, he knew, had boxed in the professional ring.
Neither pausing nor hurrying, Mrs. Barker stooped, gathered Wilmot by the coat collar in one hand, opened the watertight bulkhead with the other, transferred her second hand to Wilmot, and heaved him through.
Then she shut the bulkhead, stood up, produced a storm lantern, lit it, and stood the lighted lantern on the packing case behind which she had been hiding. She seemed to be grimly satisfied with her work.
From inside the dry dock, but muffled by the intervening bulkhead, came the cries and shouts of men. Larry and Sam had tumbled to their predicament and sounded angry. Petrella hoped they weren’t taking it out of Wilmot.
It was at this moment, and not before, that he understood what Mrs. Barker was up to. She had stooped, and taken from behind the packing case a long, iron instrument with a T-shaped handle and a forked end. She inserted this into a square trap, sunk in the concrete floor, and proceeded to twist it.
For a moment there was silence inside the bulkhead. Then cries and shouts, on a new note of terror and panic.
And the sound of water.
For an instant, Petrella’s legs refused to obey the urgent orders of his brain. Then he had jumped for the door and burst through it into the shed.
Mrs. Barker looked up. Her colourless eyes gave back the yellow of the lantern light which bobbed and flickered in the sudden draught.
“Open that door,” said Petrella.
“Why should I?” said Mrs. Barker.
“You’re drowning three men.”
“Certainl
y,” said Mrs. Barker. “It seemed the best way.”
“I can’t allow you to do it,” said Petrella. He was moving forward, very gently, judging his distance. His eye was on the iron key which Mrs. Barker still held in her powerful right hand.
“Are you able to stop me?” she said.
“I’m not sure,” said Petrella, “but I’m going to try.” On the word “try” he jumped.
He caught the key before it could come up, and wrenched it away. The next moment Mrs. Barker had both arms round him, and they had fallen on to the floor. His face was a few inches from the bottom of the bulkhead. Time had spoilt the watertight fit, and water was beginning to crawl out underneath it.
The cries inside had changed to screams.
He hunched his back, drew his knees under him, and bucked. He might as well have tried to shift a mountain. The deadly truth seized him. Mrs. Barker was stronger than he was. Stronger and heavier; and she meant to hold on, and go on holding until the dry dock was full of water; a concrete trap, to the top of which she had, with her own hands, nailed the final boards that evening, sealing the last chances of escape.
He twisted, bringing his head round until he could look into her mad eyes. He controlled his breathing until he could speak, and then he said, “You know, don’t you, that Bunny is in there with the other men?”
“It’s a lie.”
“It’s not a lie. That was Bunny that you hit, and threw in. He’s probably drowned by now. The other men may escape. They’ve only got to keep standing. The door’s leaking fast, but Bunny will be dead.”
He felt her grip slackening. The next moment she was on her feet and fumbling with the iron bolts of the bulkhead door.
The water, which came out in a solid wave, brought Wilmot with it. Petrella got him under the arms, dragged him up the steps and out of the boathouse. Then he turned him on his face and started to work on him.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw two figures grappling on the water’s edge, heard a shot and a scream; then a splash. He took no notice at all, but worked steadily on.
The Man Who Hated Banks & Other Mysteries Page 21