“Yes,” said Petrella. “But don’t blame yourself. I actually saw them playing, and it didn’t occur to me, either. Hold the ladder, would you mind?”
He climbed on the back wall, and made his way across a weedgrown ground floor. Then there was a girder to cross. It had originally been two buildings, he guessed, back to back; one fronting on Dunraven Street, the other on St. Andrew’s Circus. He was now in what was left of the larger one. The line of hoardings was above him, their footings at eye level.
Behind them ran the wall which the local authority had put up immediately after the bombing, to prevent people falling into the hole. Petrella looked at the wall cautiously. There was no obvious way up on to it, but there was a pile of rubble at one end which would offer a starting place. And, at the base of the rubble, faint but still distinct, a footprint. Petrella regarded it as lovingly as Robinson Crusoe gazed at the print of Man Friday.
Lucky we haven’t had any rain, he thought. Get something to cover it. And have a cast made quick. Better tackle the wall from the other end.
He went back the way he had come, pulled up the ladder, and returned with it to the hoarding. Using a ladder, it was possible to avoid setting foot on the coping at all. He tried to visualise the photographs. Which had been the Suddo advertisement? There was the beer poster on the left. Then the petrol hoarding. Was Suddo next, or next but one?
It was such a neat job that, even knowing what he was looking for, it took Petrella five minutes to find it. A section, twelve inches long by four inches high, had been cut from the woodwork of the hoarding – and cut so neatly that it fitted without any sort of fastening. Petrella prised it out with his fingernails. The space in front of it was blocked by the back of the poster, but a narrow slit had been cut in the paper and pasted over from the back.
Petrella opened it with the tip of his finger, and found himself looking at the face of a bus driver, fifteen feet away and almost exactly on a level with his own.
“It was an ambush,” said Petrella to Benjamin. “They knew he went through the Circus every day about that time. Of course, they were bound to be seen getting into the site at the back. They covered that by five of them playing lunch hour cricket while Maurice did the shooting.
“Bit risky,” said Benjamin. “Suppose a policeman had gone by and recognised them.”
Petrella was still young enough to blush.
He said, “One did. I actually saw them playing, and thought I recognised the one I looked at – it was Copper Dixon, the redhead. I’d seen him once before, in court. It should have clicked, but it didn’t.”
“I see,” said Benjamin. “All the same, you should be able to identify him when the time comes. What about the boys?”
“In the ordinary way, I don’t expect they’d be keen to give evidence at all, but Mr. Wetherall – he’s their headmaster – tells me that one of them is an Irish boy called O’Connor. The South Bank Irish don’t like the Borners. It’s a piece of local politics. I don’t know the ins and outs of it, but he thinks that O’Connor will give evidence. And if he does, the other boys will follow his lead.”
“And they saw Maurice actually climbing down, out of the back part of the building?”
“That’s what O’Connor says. And we’ve got one clear footprint in the rubble he stepped on to get up. And three fairly clear ones on the ledge. That could be useful.”
“Unless he’s thrown that pair of boots into the river,” said Benjamin. “But he may not have done. Even professional criminals make mistakes.”
He was turning it all over as he spoke. Petrella would make a good witness, but he had seen only one man. The boys had seen all six, but were dangerous people to put into the box. Scientific evidence of the shoe marks. That might be conclusive. Juries love a bit of science.
“I’ll try it on the Director of Public Prosecutions,” he said at last. “And see what he thinks.”
The case of the Queen against Borner and Others was news at all its stages. The ingenious and coldblooded killing had caught the public attention. Even the hearing in the Magistrates Court produced its quota of sensations.
Such proceedings are often a mere formality, a skirmish preliminary to the main battle at the Old Bailey. But in this case it was clear that the opposition meant to fight the whole way. Maurice Borner was defended by Mr. Walter Frenchman, Q.C., who was old, fat, and experienced; the remaining five by Mr. Michael Harsch, an up-and-coming young criminal advocate of considerable ability.
Thinking things over afterwards, Petrella came to the conclusion that, although he disliked young Mr. Harsch with all his heart, it was old Mr. Frenchman who had done the damage. Mr. Harsch had been too open in his dislike of the police. He had played too obviously to the public gallery. But some of the mud that he slung had seem to stick.
It had not, for instance, taken him long to ferret out the fact that Petrella occupied the flat below Mr. Wetherall, from whose school most of the witnesses came, and he had built upon this fact an impressive edifice of falsehood and collusion.
“And now, Inspector,” said Mr. Harsch, when he had exhausted this agreeable topic. “Now we come to the occasion – the remarkable occasion – on which you failed to recognise one of my clients, Mr. Dixon, when you saw him, as is alleged, indulging in a game of cricket, but yet had no difficulty in recognising him afterwards, when it suited your superior officers that you should do so.”
This did not appear to need an answer but, as Mr. Harsch had paused for breath, Petrella said, “Yes.”
“You agree that it was extraordinary?”
“Do I agree that what was extraordinary?”
“That you failed to recognise this man when you first saw him.”
“I recognised him,” said Petrella, “but failed to place him.”
“Just what do you mean by that?”
“I mean that I recognised his face, but failed to recall his name – at the time.”
“When had you seen him before?”
This was a fast one. If Petrella had said, as he very nearly did, “In this court, a month before,” it would have been a grave technical error. He blocked it by saying, “I had seen him some time before.”
“And how did you recognise him afterwards?”
“Afterwards I was shown certain photographs, and saw the accused himself, and recognised him as the man I had seen.”
“In fact, you conveniently recognised him when pressed to do so later.”
“Certainly not.”
“And you are quite sure that the man you saw, and failed to recognise, was the same as the man you saw later and succeeded in recognising?”
“Oh yes.”
“You have, if I may say so, a conveniently selective memory.”
Petrella was glad to recall, however, that Mr. Harsch had not had things all his own way. Next in the witness box was Mr. Wetherall, called to speak to the character of the boys concerned.
It was, perhaps, rash of Mr. Harsch to cross-examine, but he had not yet learnt when to let well alone. “I suggest, Mr. Wetherall,” he said, “that in a natural desire to speak well of your boys, you have been inclined to somewhat overestimate their truthfulness and powers of observation.”
“I’m sorry, Harsch.” said Mr. Wetherall, “that you should so soon have forgotten the elementary rules of grammar which I tried for four years to drum into your head. There is no excuse, even in a court of law, for splitting an infinitive.”
The press had liked this – Counsel Rebuked by Own Headmaster. They had liked it a good deal more than Mr. Harsch himself. Most of his friends at the Bar believed he had been to Marlborough.
Petrella was told that he had behaved himself quite well. In retrospect he was glad of it. There were moments that afternoon when he had despised, in the person of the sleek, young advocate, the whole British judicial system. He had been forewarned what to expect, and was tolerably equipped to deal with it. At the worst it had been a wasted and frustrating afternoon.
But what was a young policeman, whose talents lay in the physical apprehension of criminals, to make of the dialectical hairsplitting of men like Mr. Harsch? And why, in the name of sanity, did the newspapers invariably select for their headline every point made against the police – Detective Had Convenient Memory, Says Barrister – and as invariably omit the occasions on which the magistrate concluded the case by exonerating the officer concerned of the suggestions made against him?
Was it because the insults were news and the compliments were not? Or was it, perhaps, because the reporter concerned had been fined forty shillings for a parking offence the month before, and now saw an easy chance of getting his own back?
But these matters were not important. They were pinpricks in comparison with the disaster that had followed.
At the conclusion of the prosecution’s case the magistrate had, with apparent reluctance, committed the six men for trial at the Central Criminal Court, but had then been guilty of the outrageous folly, at Mr. Frenchman’s request and in the face of the strongest police pressure, of releasing all but Maurice Borner on bail. Useless to point out, as Benjamin did, his long face white with fury, that the backbone of the prosecution’s case, so far as the five were concerned, was likely to be the evidence of schoolboys. And that if the gang was allowed to go free between the preliminary hearing and the trial of the case, there would very likely be no case at all. The magistrate had listened, but with a shut mind.
“I might as well have been talking to the backside of my own car,” said Benjamin. “If he wants every one of those boys to tell a different story – or no story at all – by the time they get to the Old Bailey, he’s going the right way about it.”
“Curse the lot of them,” said Petrella, sitting on the edge of his bed on a fine September morning, and swinging pyjama’d legs. It was ten o’clock. But somehow he felt disinclined to get up at all. Nor was there any need for him to get up if he did not want to. For he was on holiday.
It was not a holiday that he had sought, for he had no wish to leave Gabriel Street until the Borner affair was settled, but two days earlier Superintendent Benjamin had given him a direct order.
“We’ve got a bit of a breathing space,” he said, “before the case comes on at the Bailey. It can’t be in the calendar before October. You’re to go off and treat yourself to a holiday.”
When Petrella looked mutinous, he had added, “I’m not thinking of you. I’m thinking of myself. If you don’t take a breather now, you won’t last out the winter. We’re too understaffed for me to allow you more than ten days, but ten days you’ll take, whether you like it or not.”
Petrella had not even the excuse that there was nowhere for him to go. Colonel Montefiore, an aged relative of his mother, had given him an open but explicit invitation to stay at his home in the Chilterns whenever Petrella felt inclined. “Bring old clothes. I can lend you a gun. And you can have your breakfast in bed every day,” wrote the Colonel. “And forget about criminals. The only criminals we have round here are poachers, and they’re all my friends.”
Two days ago the prospect had been attractive. Now, somehow, Petrella was not sure. He felt tired and irritable. At the same time restless, but disinclined for action. He pulled on a dressing gown, and wandered across to the window.
Summer was still to all appearances in full swing. The trees were heavy with leaves, and the sky was blue. A warm summer wind was driving ice cream cartons and scraps of paper along the pavement. In spite of the sun Petrella shivered. His mouth was dry and his feet were cold. He felt disinclined for food, but thought that a cup of strong coffee might do him good.
He was to take the afternoon train, and a bag, half packed, lay on the floor beside his bed. It occurred to him that he was ill-equipped for a visit to the country. It was all very well for the Colonel to talk about old clothes. There were standards to be observed. He would have to do some shopping.
An hour later he left the house. It was a glorious day, and the sun struck down through the leaves. He thought that a gentle walk might do him good, and he set off along Brinkman Road.
He stopped at Spinks’, in the Broadway, and bought himself half a dozen handkerchiefs, but thought that Spinks’ widely-advertised line in Gent’s Genuine Norfolk Jackets was hardly what the Chilterns would expect. He would have to visit the West End to get what he wanted. He decided that the quickest way, at that time of day, would be to cut across to the Surrey Docks Underground Station.
Childers Street is a long and uninspiring thoroughfare. Towards its far end it swings sharply to the right into River Street. Petrella had an idea that, if he kept straight on, there was a back way which must bring him out somewhere near the Docks Station. He realised that he was wrong when the tiny street he was using degenerated into a passage between walls of houses, and ended in a pair of heavy gates which were standing open.
Out of obstinacy he went on through the gates, and found himself on a triangular, cobbled quay which sloped down to the bank of the Surrey Union Canal. The edge of the quay was equipped with a line of iron bollards, and sitting on one of the bollards, smoking a short pipe, was a brown-faced, white-bearded man, whom Petrella recognised.
“Why, hullo, Doctor,” said Petrella, “this is a pleasant surprise.”
“Good morning, Inspector,” said the old man. “Come to inspect my boat?”
“I don’t know that I ought—”
The old man looked at him and said. “You look as if a drink wouldn’t do you any harm.”
His barge, the Journey’s End, was tied up, fore and aft, to the quay. They stepped on to her iron-plated deck, and made their way astern to the scuttle, which led down into the owner’s living quarters, sleeping-quarters, and tiny galley. It looked beautifully snug. Petrella sat down on the spare bunk and watched the doctor pottering about with a percolator, a packet of sugar, a saucepan of milk, and two mugs.
It all took a long time, and before the coffee was ready it seemed to Petrella that he must have slept and woken again. He looked up to see the doctor standing in front of him, a china mug in one hand and a puzzled look on his face.
“You all right, son?”
“Of course I’m all right,” said Petrella.
His own voice sounded thick and faraway. “A bit tired, that’s all. But I’ll be all right. I’m starting my holiday today.”
“Let’s see you on your feet.”
Petrella started to get up. Then the barge was no longer tied up. It tilted alarmingly. He reached out, and caught the edge of the table to steady himself. There was a heavy sea running. And a curtain of mist floated in front of his eyes. Odd that the weather should change so quickly. At that moment he lost hold of the edge of the table, and before he could steady himself the whole barge had tilted back again, and deposited him on the bunk. Then the mist dropped down.
The owner of the Journey’s End stood for a moment, peering, at this young man who had called to drink a cup of his coffee and had passed out on his spare bunk. Up and down the waterfronts, docksides, and canals of South London, people called him “Doctor.” In twenty years it had grown to be a sort of courtesy title. Few people realised that he was, in fact, a qualified doctor, and a man of considerable, if curious, attainments.
He laid his hand on Petrella’s forehead, which was damp and hot, felt his pulse, and listened for a moment to his breathing. Then he unlaced Petrella’s shoes and took them off, removed his coat and waistcoat, collar and tie, pulled a pillow from his own bunk and put it under the young man’s head, and covered him with a couple of rugs.
Minutes, or hours, later Petrella opened his eyes and tried to sit up. The old man jumped up out of his chair and came across.
“See if you can drink this,” he said. It was a tumbler of water, into which he dropped a couple of white tablets. “I didn’t try to push ’em down your throat when you were out. I’ve seen people choke that way.”
“What is it? What’s up?” said Petrella. “Did I pass out?”
“My guess is you’ve got flu, and a high temperature,” said the old man. “Did you say you were starting a holiday?”
“That’s right,” said Petrella. “Ten days’ holiday.” He drank up the glass, and went to sleep again. It was a hot, black-and-red sleep, a sleep of aching bones and bad dreams, in which he was endlessly cross-examined by a crocodile in a stuff gown who alternately snapped its yellow teeth and wept over him.
When he finally opened his eyes and started on the slow and difficult job of working out where he was, the first thing he noticed was that they really were afloat. No wild and illusory lurching this time, but a gentle, pleasant pitching of the great, iron coffin in which he lay. He sat up in the bunk too quickly. And lay back again while the world stopped spinning.
Then he propped himself up more cautiously on his elbow and looked round. On the fixed table, in reach of his arm, was a tumbler of water. He picked it up, drained it, was conscious of a bitter, not unpleasant taste, and fell asleep again almost before his head was on the pillow …
When he woke next it was night. The cabin was lit by the warm and cosy glow of a paraffin lamp. As he stirred, the doctor got up from behind the table and came over to him.
Petrella found that his head was quite clear. “I’m afraid,” he said, “I’ve been a bit of a nuisance.”
“Far from it. I’ve never had a more docile patient.”
“How long have I been here?”
The doctor counted on his fingers. “Two days,” he said. “And a little over ten hours.”
“Good God.” It is always startling when a tiny segment of life goes by default.
“You said you were starting a holiday. I saw no reason why you shouldn’t have it on my barge, under the care of a medical practitioner. Qualified, if a bit rusty.”
“It’s very kind of you,” said Petrella. “I was going to stay with my mother’s cousin. He’ll be having a fit.”
“We’ll send him a telegram first thing tomorrow morning.”
The Man Who Hated Banks & Other Mysteries Page 23