Young Petrella

by Michael Gilbert

  Petrella agreed that it wasn’t right. Mr. Brazier suffered from such acute halitosis that listening to him was an ordeal. However, he elicited some details. One of them was the name of the South London school that Robert had left eighteen months before.

  Petrella did some telephoning, and the following morning he caught a bus and trundled down to Southwark to have a word with Mr. Wetherall, the headmaster of the South Borough Secondary School for Boys. Mr. Wetherall was a small, spare man with a beaky nose and he had been wrestling for quarter of a century with the tough precocious youths who live south of the river. The history of his struggles was grooved into his leathery face. He cheerfully took time off to consider Petrella’s problems; all the more so when he discovered what was wanted.

  “Robert Humphreys,” he said. “I had a bet with my wife that I’d hear that name before long.”

  “Now you’ve won it, sir.”

  “Yes,” said Mr. Wetherall. He gazed reflectively round his tiny, overcrowded study, then said, “This is a big school, you know. And I’ve been here, with one short break, for more than ten years. Two or three complete generations – maybe two thousand boys. And out of all that two thousand I could count on the fingers of one hand – without using the thumb – the ones who I’d call natural leaders. And of those few I’m not sure I wouldn’t put Robert Humphreys first.”

  Mr. Wetherall added, “I’ll tell you a story about him. While he was here, we were planning to convert a building into a gymnasium. I’d got all the governors on my side except the chairman, Colonel Bond. He was opposed to spending the money, and until I’d won him over, I couldn’t move. One day the Colonel disappeared. He’s a bachelor who spends most of his time at his club. No one was unduly worried. He missed a couple of governors’ meetings, which was unusual. Then I got a letter. From the Colonel. It simply said that he had been thinking things over, and had decided that we ought to go ahead with our gym. He himself wouldn’t be able to attend meetings for some time, as his health had given way.”

  Petrella goggled at him. “Are you telling me—?” he said.

  “That’s right,” said Mr. Wetherall calmly. “The boys had kidnapped him. Robert organised the whole thing. They picked him up in a lorry, and kept him in a loft, over an old stable. Guarded him, fed him, looked after him. And when they’d induced him to write that letter, they let him out.”

  “How did they disguise themselves?”

  “They made no attempt to disguise themselves. They calculated, and rightly, that if the Colonel made a fuss people would never stop laughing at him. The Colonel had worked the sum out too, and got the same answer. He never said a word about it. In fact, it was Humphreys who told me. It was then I made my confident prediction. Downing Street or the Old Bailey.”

  “I’m afraid it may be the Old Bailey,” said Petrella, unhappily.

  “It was an even chance,” said Mr. Wetherall. “He was devoted to his mother. If she hadn’t died, I believe there’s hardly any limit to what he might have done. He’s with an uncle now. Not a very attractive man.”

  “I’ve met him,” said Petrella. As he was going he said, “Did you get your gym?”

  “I’ll show you it as we go,” said Mr. Wetherall. “One of the finest in South London.”

  It took another whole day for Petrella to finish his enquiries, but now that the clue was in his hand, it was not difficult to find the heart of the maze. It had been a day of blazing heat; by nine o’clock that night when he faced Haxtell, hardly a breath was moving.

  “There are four of them,” he said. “Five with Chris Connolly, the one we caught. First, there’s a boy called Robert Humphreys. His first lieutenant’s Brian Baker, known as Busty.”

  “A fat boy,” said Haxtell. “Rather a good footballer. His father’s a pro.”

  “Correct. The third one is Les Miller.”

  “Sergeant Miller’s boy?”

  “I’m afraid so, sir.”

  The two men looked at each other.

  “Go on,” said Haxtell grimly.

  “The fourth, and much the youngest, is one of the Harrington boys. The one they call Winkle. His real name’s Eric, or Ricky. There seems to be no doubt that the air-guns they’ve been using were stolen from a shop in Southwark, which is, incidentally, where Humphreys went to school.”

  “And Humphreys is the leader?”

  “I don’t think there’s any doubt about that at all, sir. In fact, the whole thing is a rather elaborate game made up by him.”

  “A game,” said Haxtell, pulling out a handkerchief and wiping the sweat from his forehead.

  “Of Robin Hood. That’s why they used those names. Fat Brian was Friar Tuck, red-headed Chris was Will Scarlet, Les was the Miller’s son. And Ricky was Allen-a-Dale. Robert, of course, was Robin. I believe that historically—”

  “I’m not interested in history. And you can dress it up what way you like. It doesn’t alter the fact that they’re gangsters.”

  “There were two points about them,” said Petrella. “I’m not suggesting it’s any sort of mitigation. But they really did adhere to the ideas of their originals. They didn’t rob old women or girls – and they’re usually the number one target for juvenile delinquents.”

  Haxtell grunted.

  “They chose people they thought needed robbing.” Petrella caught the look in his superior’s eye and hurried on. “And they didn’t spend the money on themselves. They gave it away. All of it, as far as I can make out. To people they thought needed it. More like the real Robin Hood than the synthetic version. Hollywood’s muddled it up for us. You hear the kids saying, ‘Feared by the bad. Loved by the good.’ But that wasn’t really the way of it. Robin Hood didn’t rob people because they were bad. He assumed they were bad, because they were rich. He was an early Communist.”

  Petrella stopped, aware that he had outrun discretion.

  “Go on,” said Haxtell grimly.

  “Of course, he’s got idealised now,” Petrella concluded defiantly. “But I should think the authorities thought he was a pretty fair nuisance – when he was actually operating – wouldn’t you?”

  “And you suggest, perhaps, that we allow them to continue their altruistic work of redistributing the wealth of North London?”

  “Oh no, sir. We’ve got to stop them.”

  “Why, if they’re doing so much good?”

  “Before they get hurt. As you said yourself.”

  Haxtell was spared the necessity of answering by a clatter of feet in the corridor and a resounding knock at the door. It was Detective Sergeant Miller, and he had his son with him.

  “Good evening, Miller,” said Haxtell. “I was half expecting you.”

  “I’ve brought my boy along,” said Sergeant Miller. He was white with fury. “He’s got something he’s going to tell you.”

  The boy had been crying, but was calm enough now. “It’s Humphreys and the others,” he said. “They’re going to do Cator’s Garage tonight. I wouldn’t agree to it. So they turned me out of the band. So I told Dad.”

  Just so, thought Petrella, had all great dynasties fallen. He was aware of a prickling sensation, a crawling of the skin, not entirely accounted for by the onrush of events. He looked out of the window and saw that a storm had crept up on them. Even as he watched, the first thread of lightning flicked out and in, like an adder’s tongue, among the banked black clouds.

  Les Miller was demonstrating something on the table.

  “They’ve found a way in round the back. They get across the canal on the old broken bridge, climb the bank, and get in a window of an outhouse, which leads into the garage. There’s a watchman, but they reckon they can rush him from behind, and get his keys off him. Cator keeps a lot of money in the garage.”

  Petrella said, “I expect that’s right, sir. We’ve had our eyes on that gentleman for some time. If he’s in the hot-car racket he’d have no use for cheques or a bank account.”

  “We’d better warn Cator,” said Haxte
ll, “and get a squad car round there quick. What time’s the operation due to start?”

  Before the boy could answer, the telephone sounded. Haxtell picked off the receiver, listened a moment, and said, “Don’t do anything. We’ll be right round,” and to the others, “It has started. That was the watchman. He’s knocked one boy out cold.”

  As Petrella ran for the car the skies opened, and he was wet to the skin before he reached it.

  Outside Cator’s Garage, a rambling conglomeration of buildings backing on the canal, they skidded to a halt, nearly ramming a big green tourer coming from the opposite direction. Herbert Cator jumped out, pounded up the cinder-path ahead of them, and thumped on the door.

  The man who opened the door looked like a boxer gone badly to seed. The right side of his face was covered with blood, from a badly torn ear and a scalp wound. He was holding a long steel stoke-raker in one hand. “Glad you’ve got here,” said the man. “Three of the little bastards. I got one of ’em.”

  He jerked his head towards the corner where fat Friar Tuck lay on his face, on the oil-dank floor.

  “Where are the others?” said Haxtell.

  “In there.” He pointed to the heavy door that led through to the main workshop. “Don’t you worry. They won’t get out of there in a hurry. The windows are all barred.”

  Haxtell walked across, slipped the bolt, and threw the door open.

  It was a big room, two storeys tall. The floor space jammed with cars in every stage of dismemberment. The top a clutter of hoisting and lifting tackle, dim above the big overhead lights.

  “Come out of there, both of you.”

  “The big one’s got a gun,” said the man. “He nearly shot my ear off.”

  “Keep away then,” said Haxtell. He turned back again, and said, in a booming voice, “Come on, Humphreys. And you, Harrington. The place is surrounded.”

  As if in defiant answer came a sudden, deafening crash of thunder. And then all the lights went out.

  “Damnation,” said Haxtell. Over his shoulder to Petrella and Miller he said, “Bring all the torches we’ve got in the car. And the spotlight, if the flex is long enough—”

  Cator said, “Hold it a moment. Something’s alight.” A golden-white sheet of flame shot up from the back of the room. Cator said thickly, “They’ve set fire to the garage, the devils.”

  In the sudden light Petrella saw the boys. They were crouching together, on an overhead latticework gantry. Cator saw them, too. His hand went down, and came up. There was the roar of a gun, once, twice, before anyone could get at him. Then Petrella was moving.

  The light showed him the iron ladder that led upwards. He flung himself at it and went up it. Then along the narrow balcony. When he reached the place where he had seen them, the boys had gone. He stood for a moment. Already the heat was becoming painful. Then, ahead of him, he saw the door to the roof. It was swinging open.

  As he reached it, the whole interior of the room went up behind him in a hot white belch of flame.

  Out on the roof he found the boys. Ricky Harrington was on his knees, beside Humphreys. The flames, pouring through the opening, lit the scene with cruel light.

  Petrella knelt down beside him. One look was enough.

  “He’s dead, ent he?” said Ricky, in a curiously composed voice.

  “Yes,” said Petrella. “And unless the fire engine comes damned quick, he’s going to have company in the next world.”

  The boy said, “I don’t want no one to rescue me.” He ran to the side of the building, vaulted the low coping, and disappeared. Petrella hurled himself after him.

  He was just in time to see the miracle. Uncaring what happened to him, Ricky had landed with a soft splash in the waters of the North Side Canal.

  If he can do it, I can, thought Petrella. Roast or drown.

  He jumped. The world turned slowly in one complete fiery circle, and then his mouth was full of water.

  He rose to the surface, spitting. There was no sign of the boy. Petrella tried to think. They had jumped from the same spot. There was no current. He must be there. Must be within a few yards.

  He took a deep breath, turned over, and duck-dived. His fingers scrabbled across filth, broken crockery, and the sharper edges of cans. When he could bear it no longer he came up.

  At the third attempt his fingers touched clothing. He slithered for a foothold in the mud, and pulled. The small body came with him, unresisting.

  A minute later, he had it on the flat towpath. He was on the far side of the river, but even so he had to stagger twenty yards and turn the corner of the wall to escape the searing blast of the heat.

  Then he dumped his burden and started to work, savagely, intently fighting for the life under his hands.

  It was five minutes before Ricky stirred. Then he rolled on to his side, and was sick.

  “What’s happened?” he said.

  “You’re all right,” said Petrella. “We’ll look after you now.”

  “Not me, him.” Then he seemed to remember, and sat still.

  In the sudden silence Petrella heard a distant and plaintive bugle note. He knew that it was only the hooter from the goods depot, but for a moment it had sounded like a horn being blown in a lonely glade; blown for the followers who would not come.

  The Coulman Handicap

  The door of No. 35 Bond Road opened and a thick-set, middle-aged woman came out. She wore a long grey coat with a collar of alpaca wool buttoned to the neck, a light grey hat well forward on her head, and mid-grey gloves on her hands. Her sensible shoes, her stockings, and the large, fabric-covered suitcase, which she carried in her right hand, were brown.

  She paused for a moment on the step. Women of her age are often near-sighted, but there was nothing in her attitude to suggest this. She had bold, brown, somewhat protuberant eyes, set far apart in her strong face. They were not unlike the eyes of an intelligent horse.

  She looked carefully to left and to right. Bond Road was never a bustling thoroughfare. At twelve o’clock on that bright morning of early April it was almost empty. A roadman, sweeping the gutter; a grocer’s delivery boy, pushing his bicycle, nose down in a comic; the postman, on his mid-morning round. All of them were well known to her. She waited to see if the postman had brought her anything, and then set off up the pavement.

  In the front parlour of No. 34, a lace curtain parted one inch and closed again. The man sitting on a chair in the bow window reached for the telephone which stood by his hand and dialled.

  He heard a click as the receiver was lifted at the other end and said, “She’s off. Going west.” Then he replaced the receiver and lit himself a cigarette. The stubs in the tray beside the telephone suggested that he had been waiting for some time.

  At that moment no fewer than twenty-four people, in one way or another, were concentrating their attention on Bond Road and on Mrs. Coulman, who lived at No. 35.

  “It’s a carrier service,” said Superintendent Palance of No. l District, who was in charge of the joint operation, “and it’s got to be stopped.” Jimmy Palance was known throughout the Metropolitan Police Force as a fine organiser, a teetotaller, a man entirely lacking in any sense of humour, who worked with a Pawnbrokers’ List and the Holy Bible side by side on his tidy desk.

  “The first problem of a thief who steals valuable and identifiable jewellery is to get rid of it. What does he do with it?”

  “Flogs it?” suggested Chief Inspector Haxtell of Y Division.

  “No fence’ll touch it,” said Chief Inspector Farmer of X Division. “Not while the heat’s on.”

  “Then he hides it,” said Haxtell. “In a safe deposit, or a bank. Crooks do have bank accounts, you know.”

  “Or a cloakroom, or a left-luggage office.”

  “Or with a friend, or at an accommodation address.”

  “Or sealed up in a tin, under the third tree from the corner.”

  “No doubt,” said Superintendent Palance, raising his heavy black eye
brows, “there are a great number of possible hiding places. I myself have listed twenty-seven distinct types. There may be more. The difficulty is that by the time the thief wishes to recover his loot, he is as often as not himself under observation.”

  Neither Haxtell nor Farmer questioned this statement. They knew well enough that it was true. A complicated system of informers almost always gave them the name of the perpetrator of any big and successful burglary. “All we then have to arrange is to watch the thief. If he goes near the stuff we will be able to lay hands on the man himself, and his cache, and his receiver.”

  “True,” said Haxtell. “So what does he do?”

  “He gets in touch with Mrs. Coulman. And informs her where he has placed the stuff. Gives her the key, or cloakroom ticket, and leaves the rest to her. It is not even necessary to give her the name of the receiver. She knows them all, and gets the best prices. She gets paid in cash, keeps a third, and hands over two-thirds to the author of the crime.”

  “Just like a literary agent,” said Farmer, who had once written a short story.

  “Sounds quite a woman,” said Haxtell.

  “She has curious antecedents,” said Palance. “She is German. And I believe, although I’ve not been able to check it, that she and her brothers were in the German Resistance.”

  “The fact that she’s alive proves she was clever,” agreed Haxtell. “Now, I gather you want quite a few men for this. Tell us how you plan to tackle it.”

  “It’s going to be a complicated job,” said Palance. “But here is the outline. . .”

  At the end of the street, after turning into the main road, Mrs. Coulman had a choice of transport. She could take a bus going south, or could cross the street and take a bus going north. Or she could walk two hundred yards down the hill to one Underground Station, or an equal distance up it to another. Or she could take a taxi. She was a thick-set woman of ample Teutonic build; and experience, gained in the last month of observation, had suggested that she would not walk very far, and would be more likely to walk downhill than up.