“Andrews,” said Gwilliam, thoughtfully. “Shop robbery?”
“Specialising in small jewellers’ shops and pawnbrokers.”
“Yes,” said the Sergeant. “You might have something there. I think we’ll bring the Inspector in on this.”
So Petrella told his story all over again.
“And your idea is—?” said Chief Inspector Haxtell.
“I couldn’t see at first how it worked, sir. But when you walk down Purton Hill it’s obvious. There aren’t any street lamps until you get under the railway arch, and it’s a nasty little slope with a half turn at the bottom. Any car which comes into it would be almost bound to flick on its headlights. And they would shine straight into one or other of the arched openings. They’re at pavement level where the road curves. And I should imagine, though I didn’t stop to look, that they give directly on to the old cellar.”
“I see,” said Haxtell. “So if you happened to be doing a little quiet work in the cellar – after midnight, say – something you couldn’t very well hide, like swinging a pickaxe – you’d be likely to be spotted.”
“That’s just what I thought,” said Petrella. “They could have blocked up the arches – but that would have been even more suspicious. I haven’t quite worked out all the angles, but I should imagine they’d need two guards – one near at hand to warn them about patrolling policemen and pedestrians and so on. And a second one in the office, with a torch, to give them plenty of warning when a car was coming.”
Haxtell had been studying a large-scale street plan and directory.
“I see,” he said, “that Samuelson’s shop is in Comber Street – that backs on to Purton Hill. If it’s a tunnel they’d need to go about forty yards. I wonder how far they’ve got.”
A few days later when, at the consummation of two weeks of hard work, the Andrews mob stepped through a carefully cut hole into the cellar of Mr. Samuelson, the well-known pawnbroker and jeweller, they found an interested reception committee awaiting them. “Artful” Andrews was a professional, and he acknowledged a fair cop.
“I suppose I been shopped,” he said, glaring round at his associates. “Which of you’s the rat?” Petrella, who was present, felt tempted to point out that it was not a rat, but a large tortoiseshell cat, which had been responsible for his downfall. But he refrained. Junior Detectives were not expected to make jokes, even if recommended for promotion.
Detective Sergeant
Breach Of The Peace
“Reading aloud,” said Sergeant Gwilliam. “Writing, including handwriting, spelling and punctuation, and the first four rules in arithmetic, including imperial weights and measures and simple fractions.”
“Simple fractions.”
“Right. Vulgar fractions are for inspectors. Also decimals.” The Sergeant contemplated the tattered copy of Police Regulations sourly. “You may have wondered why I’m still a sergeant. . .”
“As a matter of fact,” said Petrella, “I had.”
“Vulgar fractions,” said Gwilliam. “Next comes geography. Especially the geography of the British Isles. Most important that. Suppose you’re sent off to arrest someone in Edinburgh. No good saying ‘Where the hell’s that?’ is it?”
The vexed subject of promotion was once again under discussion. Normally, as Police Regulations points out, a constable must have completed five years’ service (“the last two being free from punishment other than reprimand or caution”) before he can be considered for the lofty rank of sergeant; and four years before he can even take the exam. But there is a wise proviso. If he manages to “satisfy the Chief Officer of Police” that he is a special case he may be allowed to jump the queue. And in the three months that Petrella had spent at Scotland Yard and the two years he had been at Highside, quite a few Special Reports had found their way on to his superior’s desk.
Chief Inspector Haxtell had even gone so far as to suggest that he might be able to skip the exam. “You’re educated,” he said. “Got School Certificate, or O levels or whatever they call it nowadays, I expect.”
But Petrella was doubtful. He had been comprehensively educated, but on somewhat unorthodox lines.
“I’ve got a Spanish Certificate of Instruction,” he said, “and a pass degree at Beirut University. Also a Certificate of the Elementary Degree of Competence in Viniculture—”
“I think you’d better take the exam,” said Haxtell.
So Petrella borrowed the necessary textbooks and renewed his acquaintance with imperial weights and measures and the geography of the British Isles. He was memorising the rivers of the east coast, when the riot call came through.
“Church Hall,” said the telephone. “And make it snappy.”
Petrella grabbed his hat, and was out of Mrs. Catt’s lodging house and running down the street. He considered, but abandoned, the idea of fetching his bicycle. He would be quicker on his feet. A police tender overtook him, and he jumped on to the running board.
“What’s up?” he asked.
Sergeant Gwilliam, who was sitting beside the driver, said, “A lot of little bastards started roughing up the Church Hall, but they got a bit more’n they bargained for.” Then to the driver, “Stop at the top of the street. We’ll form up and go in together. Use your weight.”
There were five of them including Petrella. Five men who keep together and know how to behave are a formidable force.
At one moment Petrella saw a milling crowd of youth, flailing arms and dark bodies, the next, they had broken through, and were on the steps of the Church Hall. There had been no need to do anything. The sight of police reinforcements had had its usual effect and the crowd was shredding away.
The Reverend Philip Freebone, a stalwart young man, had been holding the doorway with a hockey stick. He had the beginnings of a black eye, his hair was on end, and there was a purely secular light in his eye.
“Glad you’ve got here,” he panted.
“Who started it?” said Gwilliam.
“Young Corky – him and his friends.”
Gwilliam said to Petrella, “Grab Corky.”
Petrella knew Corky Williams of old. He looked for a mop of blond, almost white, hair; and saw it, in the dusk, under a lamppost.
Petrella ran. The remains of the crowd was melting fast, but he had to jump one prostrate body and push past two boys who were quietly finishing off a private argument. For a moment he lost sight of Corky. Then he saw him, and put on speed. Corky ran. Petrella ran. The chase lasted the length of two streets, and then Corky, seeing he was going to lose the race, slowed down and Petrella grabbed his arm.
“Come back and do some explaining.”
“Sure, I’ll come with you, Mr. Petrella,” said Corky. He had the appearance of a lost waif and a voice that had melted harder hearts than Petrella’s. “What do you want me for? It’s nothing to do with me. I was just passing.”
“Save it,” said Petrella. “We’ll hear what the parson has to say.”
“You needn’t hold my arm,” said Corky. “I won’t run away.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” said Petrella, and held his arm twice as tight.
Back at the Church Hall volunteers were clearing up the mess. Four boys were being guarded by a policeman in the changing room, and Sergeant Gwilliam was being talked to by the Reverend Freebone.
“What that Corky wants,” he said, “is the repeated application of a hard-heeled shoe to his bottom. He looks like a cherub, his mother spoils him, and if someone doesn’t do something drastic, he’s going to grow up to be a gangster.”
“I know his mother,” said Sergeant Gwilliam, shortly. “What happened tonight?”
“A week ago I threw young Corky out of the club. For what seemed to me good reasons. I found he’d been using the recreation circle as cover for a pontoon school. And not even” – the reverend gentleman choked slightly – “an honest pontoon school. The cards were marked. And if a boy complained about his losses, he was intimidated by some of the older
boys – you’ve got three or four of the worst of them in there. But they weren’t the organisers. They did what they were told – by Corky.”
“I see,” said Gwilliam, “and tonight—?”
“Tonight he turned up, with his supporters, and started shouting at the boys who were coming into club night. They didn’t like it – but it wasn’t until they threw a stone through the window that the trouble really started—”
“I can take it from there,” said Gwilliam. “Who threw the stone? Was that Corky?”
“I don’t think so. He kept very much in the background. But he was there all right. That head of hair’s unmistakable.”
“I’d better have a word with him,” said Gwilliam.
A quarter of an hour later, he returned. He looked frustrated.
“Either he’s the most accomplished liar I’ve ever listened to – or we’re all dreaming,” he said. “You’re sure he was here, when the trouble started, I mean?”
“Absolutely sure. Does he deny it?”
“He says that his mother sent him out on an errand – he’s got all the times and details pat – that he came past the end of the road, heard a lot of noise and shouting, and stopped to see what it was all about.”
“Let’s see the other boys,” suggested Petrella.
The four youths in the changing room all said the same thing in suspicious unison. They’d been walking past the end of the road. (They hadn’t taken the same trouble as Corky to construct an elaborate alibi, Petrella noticed.) They had heard a row. They had stopped to watch. It was nothing to do with them.
“Someone must have started it,” suggested Gwilliam. “Did you happen to see anyone – throwing a stone, for instance?”
They had seen no one.
“You didn’t happen to notice young Williams?”
They had none of them noticed Corky.
The police retired, baffled.
“Ask Corky,” said Petrella, “why he ran away from me.”
Corky was brought in. His blue eyes grew large as he understood the purport of the question. “Me, run away,” he said. “Why, it just isn’t true. I was walking away – I didn’t want any part of it. I was two streets away when this other man came running after me. And grabbed me by the arm. He grabbed so hard it hurt.”
Petrella could almost see the blue eyes filling with tears.
He looked at Sergeant Gwilliam, and shook his head.
The Sergeant drew a visible breath. “I’m charging you all,” he said. “Breach of the Peace.”
Petrella had early discovered that it was useless trying to set aside periods for study in his spare time. He had no spare time. Three times in his nominal rest hours he had retired to his lodgings with his textbooks and three times he had been snatched from them by the calls of duty. Now he kept the books in the CID room – a small room, up a flight of stairs at the back of the Crown Road Police Station, which he shared with Sergeant Gwilliam – and studied when he could.
He was committing to memory that difficult table which starts, “Twenty-four grains, one pennyweight, twenty penny-weight, one ounce,” when Chief Inspector Haxtell looked in.
“This Williams case,” he said. “It looks as if it’s blowing up into something. They’ve asked for a remand so that they can brief counsel. And the highups are getting worried and talking about bringing in a big gun themselves.”
“It’s that woman,” said Gwilliam. There was no need to ask. They both knew who he meant.
“They’re building up a lovely case of persecution,” said Haxtell. “Here’s how it goes. Six months ago we charged Mrs. Williams with receiving property – one portable wireless set – knowing the same to have been stolen. So she did, and so it had been. Only we weren’t able to prove it. We knew it had been looted from the Sonning Town Goods Depot. Knowing isn’t proving. She produced a receipt, from a wireless shop, now defunct. And a neighbour, who swore blind she’d had that set for two years. And the court gave her the benefit of the doubt.”
“I see now, sir,” said Petrella, “where Corky gets his eye for detail.”
“They’re both very high-class liars. Now, the story goes on, having failed to convict Mrs. Williams, we try and get at her by trumping up a story about her son. Sounds quite convincing, too. I’d believe it myself if I didn’t know it was all lies.”
It was the lunch hour, on the following day, that Mrs. Williams called to see Petrella. There was, in theory, nothing to prevent people visiting the CID room, but in fact this was the first occasion he could remember of an outsider penetrating it. An apologetic constable put his head round the door, and said, “She had something very important to say – I thought I’d better bring her up.”
“That’s all right,” said Petrella, pushing a work on Elementary Punctuation back into the drawer. “Show her in.”
A sight of Mrs. Williams at close quarters showed where Corky had got his good looks from. She must have been nearer forty than thirty but she possessed those firm, regular, very slightly exaggerated lines of beauty which are so popular in saloon bars and on the music-hall stage. The suggestion of a flower garden in the month of August advanced with her into the room.
As Petrella studied her she repaid him the compliment. She seemed surprised that he was so young.
“Please sit down,” he said. “What can I do for you?”
Her surprise seemed to increase when he spoke.
“You’re educated, aren’t you?” she said. “What are you doing in this crowd?”
“Earning my living.”
“Must be better ways than this.” Her glance comprehended the bare and dusty room, the worn linoleum, the shiny patches on Petrella’s hard-worked elbows.
“I’m endeavouring to better myself,” said Petrella seriously.
“So I heard. You’re going for sergeant, aren’t you?”
If Petrella was surprised he managed to conceal it.
“That’s one of the reasons I came to see you. You heard of Micky Malone?”
Petrella said nothing. Everyone had heard of Micky Malone, housebreaker extraordinary. And every policeman in North London would have given his belt and buttons for the chance of presenting a real, watertight, lawyer-proof case against him.
“If you pulled him in – with the stuff on him – that’d do you some good, wouldn’t it?”
Petrella sat very still. He had been a policeman long enough to know that just so had all great criminals been caught. By some woman, like Mrs. Williams, coming quietly to a CID room and speaking a few simple words. What sordid story of intrigue and violence, of passion and treachery lay behind those words was often not known.
“If you know anything about Malone,” he said, “I’d be glad to listen to it.”
“So you shall,” said Mrs. Williams, crossing one shapely leg over the other, “when the charge against my son is dismissed.”
“I’m not the magistrate,” said Petrella.
“Now don’t you come that sort of stuff with me. I’ve talked to the boy, and I know just where he stands. There’s only one thing against him. That he ran away when he saw you coming. All you’ve got to do is take it back. Say you made a mistake. It was some other boy. He was walking away quietly, like he said.”
“How can I say it when it isn’t true?”
“That’s up to you,” said Mrs. Williams. “It won’t be the first lie the police have told. What about it? Do we deal?”
If Petrella hesitated, it was nothing to do with his decision. He had come to that minutes earlier. It was just that there were certain angles which still puzzled him. At last he said, almost absent-mindedly, “No, of course I can’t make any bargain with you. Now if that’s all. . .”
Mrs. Williams was on her feet and she suddenly looked ten years older and a great deal uglier.
“I’m warning you,” she said. “You’re young. You don’t understand how things go. I’ve got friends.”
“Mind the step,” said Petrella.
“Certa
inly she’s got friends,” said Gwilliam, when Petrella told him about it. “And that perishing little jack-in-office, Councillor Hayes, is one of them. He’s had it in for the police ever since we didn’t find out who did his house nine months ago. If he didn’t do it himself.”
“I don’t think Hayes is a crook,” said Petrella. “Just a busybody. He’s certainly got a bee in his bonnet about the police.”
“As long as he keeps it in his bonnet, and doesn’t let it get out and sting us.”
“I’ve just been reading a book on civics,” said Petrella. “It points out that whilst, outside London, the police forces are under the control of the Borough Council or the County Council as the case may be, in London they are answerable only to the Home Secretary.”
“And who’s he answerable to?” said Gwilliam. “Parliament. And who are they answerable to? I’ll tell you. Any nosey little busybody who chooses to make a fuss and get the Press moving.”
Superintendent Barstow at Division was saying the same thing, but in different words, to Chief Inspector Haxtell.
“This is one case we want to win,” he said. “I hear the defence have got Marsham-Tallboys – you remember him? He’s the man who gave the Chief Superintendent such a bad time in the warehouse case. We’ve briefed Collins.”
“What’s all the fuss about?” said Haxtell, uneasily.
“It’s just one of those things,” said Barstow. “If the boy gets off, people will believe we have been persecuting the Williams family. Councillor Hayes is bound to raise it for them. He’s not a crook, but he’s a susceptible old fool. And Mrs. Williams has got him round her little finger. The Press have been a bit restive lately, and this’ll be a Roman holiday for them.”
Haxtell didn’t enquire who would play the role of early Christian martyr. He knew.
“There’s more to it than that,” said Barstow. “I’m told there’s a sort of pressure group trying to put the Home Secretary down. And criticism of the police is the best ammunition they can have.”
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