He became aware that the messenger had halted opposite him.
“You Sergeant Pirelli?” he said.
“That’s right,” said Petrella. He had long ago given up correcting people about it.
“CID, Y Division?”
“Ten out of ten.”
“Whassat?”
“I said you’re quite right.”
“I’ll tell ’em you’re here,” said the messenger.
Five minutes later a cheerful-looking girl arrived and said, “Sergeant Petrella? Would you come with me, please?”
His opinion of the Pensions Section became a good deal more favourable. Any department that employed a girl with legs like that must have some good in it.
So engrossed was he in this speculation that it did not, at first, occur to him to ask where they were going. When they reached, and pushed through, a certain swing door on the first floor, he stopped her.
“You’ve got it wrong,” he said. “This is where the top brass work. If we don’t look out we shall be busting in on the Assistant Commissioner.”
“That’s right,” said the girl. She knocked on one of the doors on the south side of the corridor; opened it without waiting for an answer; said, “I have Sergeant Petrella here for you,” and stood aside.
He advanced dazedly into the room. He had been there once before, and he knew that the grey-haired man behind the desk was Assistant Commissioner Romer, of the CID; a man who, unlike some of his predecessors, had not come to his office through the soft byways of the legal department, but had risen from the bottom-most rung of the ladder, making enemies at every step, until finally he had found himself at the top; when, there being no one left to fight, he had proved himself a departmental head of exceptional ability.
In a chair beside the window he noted Superintendent Costorphine, who specialised in all matters connected with narcotics. He had worked for him on two previous occasions and had admired him, although he could not love him.
Romer said, in a very friendly voice, “Sit down, will you, Sergeant. This is going to take some time. You know Costorphine, don’t you? I’m sorry about this cloak-and-dagger stuff, but you’ll understand better when I explain what it’s about, and what we’re going to ask you to do. And when I say ‘ask’ I mean just that. Nothing that’s said this morning is anything approaching an order. It’s a suggestion. If you turn it down, no one’s going to think any the worse of you. In fact, Costorphine and myself will be the only people who will even know about it.”
Assuming a cheerfulness which he was far from feeling, Petrella said, “You tell me what you want me to do, sir, then I can tell you if I want to run away.”
Romer nodded at Costorphine, who said in his school-masterly voice, “Almost a year ago, we noted a new source of entry of cocaine into this country. Small packets of it were taken from distributors inside the country. It was never found in large quantities, and we never found how it got in.
“Analysis showed it to be Egyptian in origin. It also showed quite apppreciable deposits of copper. It is obviously not there as the result of any part of the process of manufacture, and it is reasonable to suppose that it came there during some stage in shipment or entry.
“Once the source had been identified, we analysed every sample we laid hands on, and it became clear—” Costorphine paused fractionally, not for effect, he was a man who had no use for effects, but because he wished to get certain figures clear in his own head – “that rather over half of the total intake of illicit cocaine coming into this country was coming under this head. And that the supply was increasing.”
“And along with it,” said Romer, “were increasing, at a rate of geometrical progression, most of the unpleasant elements of criminal activity with which we have to deal. Particularly among juveniles. I’ve had some figures from America which made my hair stand on end. We’re not quite as bad as them yet, but we’re learning.”
Petrella could have said, “There’s no need to tell me. I knew Cora Wynne when she was a nice, friendly schoolgirl of fourteen, and I saw her just before she died.” But he kept quiet.
Romer went on, “I suppose if youth thinks it may be blown to smithereens inside five or ten years by some impersonal force pressing a button, it’s predisposed to experiment. I don’t know. Anyway, you’ll understand why we thought it worth bringing down a busy detective sergeant from Y Division and wasting his morning for him.
“Now, I’m going to give you some facts. We’ll start, as our investigators started about nine months ago, with a gentleman called Batson. Mr. Batson is on the board of the Consort Line, a company which owns and runs three small cargo steamers: the Albert Consort, the William Consort, and the Edward Consort: steamers which run between various Mediterranean ports, Bordeaux, and London.”
When Romer said, “Bordeaux”, Petrella looked up at Costorphine, who nodded.
“Bordeaux, but not the racket you’re thinking of,” he said. “We’ve checked that.”
“Batson,” went on Romer, “is not only on the board of the Consort Line. It has been suggested that he is the board. But one thing about him is quite certain. Whatever his connection with this matter he, personally, takes no active part. He neither carries the stuff nor has any direct contact with the distributors. But I think that, at the end of the day, the profit goes to him.
“That being so, we looked carefully at his friends, and the one who caught our eye was Captain Cree. Ex-captain now, since he has retired from the services of the Consort Line, and lives in considerable affluence in a house at Greenwich. He maintains a financial interest in the Consorts through his friend, Mr. Batson, and acts as chandler and shore agent for them – finds them crews and cargoes, and buys their stores.
“All of which might add up, in cash, to a nice house at Greenwich, but wouldn’t really account for” – Romer ticked them off on his fingers – “two personal motor cars, with a chauffeur body-servant to look after the same, a diesel-engined tender called Clarissa and based on Wapping, with a full-time crew of three and, in addition to all these, a large number of charitable and philanthropic enterprises, chiefly among seamen and boys in the dockside area.”
“He sounds perfectly terrible,” said Petrella.
“Such a statement, made outside these four walls,” said Romer, “would involve you in very heavy damages for defamation. Captain Cree is a respectable, and a respected, citizen. One of his fondest interests is the Sark Lane Mission.”
“The Sark Lane—”
“The name is familiar to you? It should be. The Mission was one of the first in Dockland, and it was founded by your old school.”
“Of course. I remember now. We used to have a voluntary subscription of five shillings taken off us on the first day of every term. I don’t think anyone took any further interest in it.”
“I should imagine that one of the troubles of the Sark Lane Mission is that people have not taken enough interest in it. The Missioner for the last twenty-five years has been a Mr. Jacobson. A very good man, in his way and, in his early years, energetic and successful. Jacobson finally retired last month, at the age of seventy-five.
“I should imagine that for the last ten years his appearances at the Mission have been perfunctory. The place has really been kept going by an old, ex-naval man called Batchelor – and by the regular munificence of Captain Cree.”
“I see,” said Petrella. He felt that there must be something more to it than that.
“The appointment of the Missioner lies with the School Governors, but they act on the recommendation of the Bishop of London. Sometimes the post is filled by a clergyman. Sometimes not. On this occasion, the recommended candidate was the Reverend Freebone.”
“Philip Freebone!”
“The present incumbent of the Church of St. Peter and St. Paul, Highside. You know him, I believe?”
“Very well indeed. He started up at Highside as curate, and when the incumbent died he was left in charge. I can’t imagine anyone who wou
ld do the job better.”
“I can,” said Romer.
When he had got over the shock, Petrella did not pretend not to understand him.
“I don’t think I could get away with it, sir,” he said. “Not for any length of time. There’d be a hundred things I’d do wrong.”
“I’m not suggesting that you should pose as a clergyman. You could go as Mr. Freebone. You’ve had some experience with youth clubs, I believe.”
“For a few months before I joined the police, yes. I wasn’t very successful.”
“It may have been the wrong sort of club. I have a feeling you’re going to be very successful in this one.”
“Has Freebone been told?”
“He knows that he’s got the job. He hasn’t been told of the intended – er – rearrangement.”
“I think you may have some difficulty there. Phil’s one of the most obstinate people I know.”
“I will have a word with his Bishop.”
“I am afraid clergyman do not always do what their Bishops tell them these days,” remarked Costorphine.
“This isn’t a job on which we can afford to make a second mistake,” continued Romer.
Petrella looked up.
“We got a man into the Consort Line about six months ago. It took some doing but we managed it in the end, without, as far as we know, arousing any suspicions. He was engaged as an ordinary seaman, under the name of Mills. He made voyages on all three of the ships, and gave us very full but absolutely negative reports. He was on his way home a fortnight ago in the Albert Consort, and was reported as having deserted ship at Marseilles.”
“And hasn’t been seen since?”
“He’s been seen,” said Romer. “The French police found him in the foothills behind Marseilles two days ago. What was left of him. He’d been tortured before he was killed.”
“I see,” said Petrella.
“I’m telling you this so that, if you go in at all, you go in with your eyes wide open. This is an international crowd, who are calculating their profits in millions. And who must be responsible, directly, and indirectly, for hundreds of deaths a year. A single life is not of great importance.”
“No,” said Petrella. “I can quite see that. . .”
A fortnight later the new Missioner came to the Sark Lane Mission. This was a rambling, two-storey, yellow brick building in the style associated, through the East End, with temperance and good works.
The street doors opened into a small lobby, in which a notice said, in startling black letters:
WIPE YOUR FEET
Someone had crossed out FEET in pencil and hopefully substituted a different part of the body. On the left of the lobby was a reception office, which was empty.
Beyond, you went straight into the main Mission room, which rose the full two-storey height of the building and looked like a drill hall, half-heartedly decorated for a dance. Dispirited red and white streamers hung from the iron crossbars which spanned the roof. A poster on the far wall bore the message, in cottonwool letters, “How will you spend Eternity?”
At the far end of the hall three boys were throwing darts into a board. Superficially they all looked alike, with their white town faces, their thick dark hair, and their general air of having been alive a lot longer than anyone else.
When, later, Mr. Freebone got to know them, he realised that there were differences. The smallest and fattest was a lazy but competent boy called Ben. The next in height and age was Colin, a dull boy of fifteen, who came to life only on the football field; but for football he had a remarkable talent, a talent which was already attracting the scouts from the big clubs, and was one day to put his name in the headlines. The oldest and tallest of the boys was called Humphrey, and he had a long, solemn face with a nose which started straight and turned to the right at the last moment, and a mouth like a crocodile’s. It was not difficult to see that he was the leader of the three.
None of them took the slightest notice of Mr. Freebone, as he padded across the scarred plank flooring to watch them.
In the end he said, “You’re making an awful mess of that, aren’t you?” He addressed this remark to the fat boy. “If you want fifteen and end on a double it’s a waste of time going for one.”
The boy gaped at him. Mr. Freebone took the darts from him, and threw them. First a single three; then, at the second attempt, a double six.
“There you are, Ben,” said the tall boy. “I told you to go for three.” He transferred his gaze to Mr. Freebone. “You want Batchy?” he said.
“Batchy?” said Mr. Freebone. “Now who, or what, would that be?”
“Batchy’s Batchelor.”
This was even more difficult, but in the end he made it out. “You mean the caretaker. Is his name Batchelor?”
“’Sright. You want him, you’ll find him in his room.”
He jerked his head towards the door at the far end of the building.
“Making himself a nice cupper,” said Ben. “I once counted up how many cuppers Batchy drinks in a day. Guess how many? Seventeen.”
“I’ll be having a word with him soon, I expect,” said Mr. Freebone. “Just for the moment I’m more interested in you. I’d better introduce myself. My name’s Freebone. I’m the new Missioner.”
“What’s happened to old Jake?” said Ben. “I thought we hadden seen him round for a bit. He dead?”
“Now that’s not nice, Ben,” said the tall boy. “You don’t say, ‘Is he dead?’ Not when you’re talking to a clergyman. You say, ‘Has he gone before?’”
“Clergyman or not,” said Mr. Freebone, “I shouldn’t use a ghastly expression like that. If I meant dead, I’d say dead. And Mr. Jacobson’s not dead anyway. He’s retired. And I’ve got his job. Now I’ve told you all about me, let’s hear about you. First, what are your names?”
The boys regarded him warily. The man-to-man approach was not new to them. In their brief lives they had already met plenty of hearty young men who had expressed a desire to lead them onwards and upwards to better things.
In the end it was Humphrey who spoke. “I’m Humphrey,” he said. “The thin one’s Colin. The fat one’s Ben. You like to partner Ben we’ll play 301 up, double in, double out, for a bob a side.”
“Middle for diddle,” said Mr. Freebone.
At the end of the third game, at which point Mr. Freebone and Ben were each richer by three shillings, Humphrey announced without rancour that he was skinned and would have to go home and get some more money. The others decided to pack it up, too.
“I hope we’ll see you here this evening,” said the new Missioner genially, and went in search of the resident caretaker, Batchelor, whom he found, as predicted, brewing tea in his den at the back of the hall.
He greeted the new Missioner amiably enough.
“You got lodgings?” he said. “Mr. Jacobson lived up at Greenwich, and came down every day. Most days, that is.”
“I’m going to do better than that,” said Mr. Freebone. “I’m going to live here.”
“Live here?”
“Why not? I’m told there are two rooms up there.”
“Well, there are two rooms at the back. Gotter nice view of the factory. It’s a long time since anyone lived in ’em.”
“Here’s someone going to start,” said Mr. Freebone.
“There’s a piler junk in ’em.”
“If you’ll lend me a hand, we’ll move all the junk into one of the rooms for a start. I’ve got a camp bed with my luggage.”
Batchelor gaped at him.
“You going to sleep here tonight?” he said.
“I’m going to sleep here tonight and every night,” said Mr. Freebone happily. “I’m going to sleep here and eat here and live here, just as long as they’ll have me.”
The next week was a busy one.
As soon as Batchelor saw that the new Missioner was set in his intention and immovable in his madness, he made the best of it, and turned to and lent a hand.
> Mr. Freebone scrubbed, and Batchelor scrubbed. Windows were opened which had not been opened in living memory. Paint and distemper arrived by the gallon.
Almost everyone fancies himself as a decorator, and as soon as the boys grasped that an ambitious programme of interior decoration was on foot, they threw themselves into it with zeal. One purchased a pot of yellow paint, and painted, before he could be stopped, the entire outside of the porch.
Another borrowed a machine from his employer without his employer’s knowledge, and buffed up the planks of the main room so hard there was soon very little floor left. Another fell off the roof and broke his leg.
Thus was inaugurated Mr. Freebone’s Mission at Sark Lane; a Mission which, in retrospect, grew into one of the oral traditions of the East End, until almost anything would be believed if it was prefaced with the words, “When ol’ Freebone was at Sark Lane.”
It was not, as his charges were quick to remark, that he was a particularly pious man; although the East End is one of the few places where saintliness is esteemed at its true worth. Nor that he interested himself, as other excellent Missioners had done, in the home life and commercial prospects of the boys in his care. It was simply that he lived in, with, and for the Mission. That, and a certain light-hearted ingenuity, allied to a curious thoroughness in the carrying out of his wilder plans.
The story will some day be told more fully of his Easter Scout camp; a camp joined, on the first night, by three strange boys whose names had certainly not been on the original roll, and who turned out to be runaways from a Borstal institution – to whose comforts they hastily returned after experiencing, for a night and a day, the vigorous hospitality of the Sark Lane Scout Troop.
Nor would anyone who took part in it lightly forget the Great Scavenger Hunt which culminated in the simultaneous arrival at the Mission of a well-known receiver of stolen goods and the Flying Squad; or the Summer Endurance Test in the course of which a group of contestants set out to swim the Thames in full clothes, and ended up at a debutante’s Steamer Party. In which connection Humphrey claimed to be one of the few people who has danced, dripping wet, with a royal personage.
Young Petrella Page 21