Young Petrella

by Michael Gilbert

  It took them over an hour to go through the first three packages. During this time the water in the copper had itself been emptied and filtered, and the copper refilled. Twice, during this time, a boy had rattled on the door that led into the hall, and Batchelor had shouted back that he was busy.

  “Tip the last lot in,” said the Captain, “and be quick about it.” They were all three sweating. “We don’t want anyone bursting in on us now.”

  He had never handled such a quantity before. The third flask was in use. Two were already full. He had his back to the door leading to the lobby, and they none of them heard or saw it open.

  “What on earth are you all up to?” said Mr. Freebone.

  The three men swung round in one ugly, savage movement. The plastic cap of the flask fell from Captain Cree’s hand and rolled across the floor.

  “What is it – washing day?”

  There was a silence of paralysis as he walked across the room, and peered down into the flask. “And what’s this stuff?”

  “What—where have you come from?” said Captain Cree hoarsely.

  “I’ve been up in my room, writing,” said Mr. Freebone. “I changed my mind, and came back. Do I have to ask your permission?” He extended one finger, touched the grey powder in the flask, and carried his finger to his lips.

  Then Carter hit him. It was a savage blow, delivered from behind, with a leather-covered sap, a blow which Mr. Freebone neither saw nor heard.

  They stared at him.

  “You killed him?” said Batchelor.

  “Don’t be a damned fool,” said Carter. He looked at Captain Cree. The same thought was in both their minds.

  “We shall want some cord,” he said. “Have you got any?”

  “I don’t know—”

  “Go on. Get it.”

  It took five minutes to truss up Mr. Freebone. He was showing no signs of life, even while they manhandled him out and dumped him in the back of the station wagon.

  Captain Cree seemed to have recovered his composure.

  “You stay here and watch him,” he said to Carter.

  “Are we going to gag him?”

  “I think that would be a mistake,” said the Captain. “Leave too many traces.” They looked at each other again. The thought was as clear now as if it had been spoken. “If he opens his mouth, hit him again.”

  Carter nodded, and the Captain disappeared into the building. In half an hour the job was finished, and he came out carrying a suitcase.

  “Not a blink,” said Carter.

  The Captain placed the suitcase carefully in the back of the car, where it rested on the crumpled body of Mr. Freebone. Then he climbed into the driving seat, backed the car out, and started on the half-mile drive to Pagett’s Wharf, where the Clarissa lay.

  The wind, risen almost to gale force, was flogging the empty streets with its lash, part rain, part hail, as the big car nosed its way slowly across the cobbles of the wharf.

  Captain Cree turned off the lights and climbed out, followed by Carter. Twenty yards away, in the howling wilderness of darkness, a single riding light showed where the Clarissa bumped at her moorings. At their feet the river slid past, cold and black.

  The Captain said into Carter’s ear, “We’ll take the cords off him first. I put ’em on over his clothes so they won’t have left much mark. If he’s found, what’s to show he didn’t slip, and knock his head going in?”

  “If he’s found,” said Carter.

  Back at the Mission, Batchelor was facing a mutiny.

  “What’ve you been up to, locked in here all evening?” said Humphrey. “That was the Captain’s car in the alley, wasn’t it?”

  “That’s right,” said Ben.

  “And what’ve you done with Mr. Freebone?”

  “He ent here,” said Batchelor. “And you can get out of my room too, all of you.”

  “Where is he?”

  “He went away for the weekend. He’ll be back tomorrow.”

  As soon as he had said this, Batchelor realised his mistake. “Don’t be soft,” said Humphrey. “He came back after tea. We saw him. Pop upstairs, Ben, and see if he’s in his room.”

  “You’ve got no right—” said Batchelor. But they were past taking any notice of what he said.

  “And what were you doing with all those clothes?” He pointed at the sodden pile in the corner. “Is this washing night, or something?”

  Batchelor was saved answering by the reappearance of Ben. “He’s been there,” he said. “The light’s on. And there’s a letter on the table he was finishing writing. And his raincoat’s there.”

  “He wouldn’t go without a coat,” said Humphrey. “Not on a night like this. He’s been took.”

  Here Batchelor made his second mistake. He broke for the door. Several pairs of hands caught him, and threw him back ungently into the chair. For the moment, after the scuffle, there was silence and stillness.

  Then Humphrey said, “I guess they were up to something. And I guess Mr. Freebone came back when he wasn’t expected. And I guess the Captain and Carter and that lot have picked him up.”

  “So that’s all you can do, guess,” said Batchelor viciously. But the fear in his voice could be felt.

  “All right,” said Humphrey calmly. “Maybe I’m wrong. You tell us.” Batchelor stared at him. Humphrey said, “Is that water hot, Ben?”

  Ben dipped the top of his finger in, and took it out again quickly.

  Humphrey said, “Either you talk, or we hold your head down in that.”

  It took six of them to get him halfway across the floor. Batchelor stopped cursing and started to scream. When his nose was six inches away from the water he talked.

  “Pagett’s Wharf,” said Humphrey. “All right. We’ll lock him up in here. If he’s lying to us, we’ll come back and finish him off afterwards.”

  “How do we get there?” said one of the boys.

  “Night like this,” said Humphrey, “the quickest way to get anywhere’s to run.”

  The pack streamed out into the howling darkness.

  In the big foredeck cabin of the Clarissa, Captain Cree was giving some final instructions to Carter when he heard the shout. Carter jumped across to the cabin door and pulled it open.

  “Who’s out there?” said the Captain.

  “Ron’s on deck,” said Carter. “David’s ashore somewhere.”

  “Who was that shouted?”

  “It sounded like Ron,” said Carter.

  This was as far as he got. The next moment a wave of boys seemed to rise out of the darkness. Carter had time to shout before something hit him, and he went down.

  The attack passed into the cabin. Captain Cree got his hand to a gun, but had no time to fire it. Humphrey, swinging an iron bar which he had picked up on deck, broke Cree’s arm with a vicious side swipe. The gun dropped from his fingers. “Pull him in,” said Humphrey. “Both of them.”

  Captain Cree, his right arm swinging loosely in front of him, his red face mottled with white, held himself up with his sound hand on the table.

  Carter lay on the floor at his feet, and Ben kicked him, as hard and as thoughtlessly as you might kick a football. The boys had tasted violence and victory that night, and it had made them drunker than any strong drink.

  “There’s one thing can keep you alive,” said Humphrey. “And that’s Mr. Freebone. Where is he?”

  For a count of ten there was silence. The Captain’s mouth worked, but no sound came out of it.

  Almost gently Humphrey said, “So you dropped him in the river. He’s going to have three for company. Right?”

  That was right. That was the way things were done in the land of violence and hot blood. Humphrey swung his iron bar delicately.

  “You can’t,” said the Captain. “You can’t do it. I’ll tell you everything. I’ll do what you like. There’s a hundred thousand pounds’ worth of cocaine in that suitcase. It’s yours, for the taking.”

  “We’ll pour it in
after you,” said Humphrey. “It’ll be useful where you’re going.”

  “You can’t do it—”

  “Who’s stopping us?”

  “I am,” said a voice from behind them. The third member of the Clarissa’s crew, David, stepped through the door into the cabin.

  He was drenched with rain, dishevelled, and out of breath from running; but there was something about him which held all their eyes.

  “How—”

  “It’ll save a lot of time and trouble,” said David, “if I tell you that I’m a police officer. My name, not that it matters, is Petrella. I’m a sergeant in the plainclothes branch, and I’m taking these three men into custody.”

  “But,” said Humphrey, “they’ve killed Mr. Freebone.”

  “They meant to kill him,” said Petrella. “No doubt of it. But there’ve been two police launches lying off this wharf ever since dusk, and one of them picked him up. He’s at Leman Street Police Station, and from what he’s told me, we’ve got more than enough to send both these men away for life. So don’t let’s spoil a good thing now.”

  There was a bump at the side of the boat as the River Police tender hitched on alongside. The first man in the cabin was Superintendent Costorphine, looking like a bedraggled crow. He pounced on the suitcase.

  “Three months’ supply for London,” said Petrella. “It’ll need a bit more drying-out, but it’s all there. . .”

  Later, Petrella found Philip Freebone propped up on pillows in St. George’s Hospital, where he had been taken, under protest, and deposited for the night.

  “There’s nothing wrong with me,” he said. “I’d just as soon be back in my bed at the Mission. There’s a lot to do. I shall have to find a replacement for Batchelor.”

  “Are you going on with the job?”

  Freebone looked surprised. “Of course I am,” he said. “I’ve enjoyed it. I knew I should. That’s why I wouldn’t let you do it.”

  “The trouble is,” said Petrella, “that you’ve set yourself too high a standard. The boys will never have another night like tonight as long as they live. Do you realise that if I hadn’t turned up, they really were going to knock Captain Cree off and put him and Carter over the side?”

  “Yes, I expect they would.” Freebone thought about it, and added, “It’s rather a compliment, really, isn’t it? What are you going to do now, Patrick?”

  “Take a holiday,” said Detective Sergeant Petrella. “A good, long holiday.”

  Paris in Summer

  “Well,” said Superintendent Haxtell, “I must say, I think you’ve earned it.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said Detective Sergeant Petrella, whose mind was several hundred miles away from the dreary mid-summer dustiness of Crown Road Police Station. It was ranging free, in Seville, under the orange trees. In his ears no longer sounded the grinding throb of traffic, as it panted up Highside Hill. He was sitting on the patio of the Villa Hernandez, listening to the chorus of the cicadas at sunset.

  “It’s a long time since you had a holiday.”

  “Eighteen months since I had a proper one,” said Petrella.

  “You’ll be going abroad?”

  “I’m planning to spend most of it with my father, in Spain. On the way out I’m putting in a couple of days with my mother’s great aunt in Paris.”

  “Somehow,” said Haxtell, “I have never associated Paris with anyone’s great-aunt.”

  “She’s a marvellous old lady. She’s eighty-two. And she lives in a flat overlooking the Avenue Victor Hugo, and spends her time with other old ladies and gentlemen, deploring modern youth and sipping abricotine.”

  Haxtell looked curiously at his subordinate. “You speak French, don’t you?” he said. “Proper French, I mean. Not just ‘plume de ma tante’ stuff.”

  “I speak French better than Spanish,” said Petrella. “Although I was born in Spain. We all moved to Bordeaux when I was six. That’s a good age for picking up a language, because you don’t forget it again easily.”

  “Well, behave yourself,” said Haxtell. He wondered if he ought to tell Petrella that his promotion to Inspector was now practically on the plate. In fact, the only reason that it had not come through was that the person who could sign the most important documents was himself on holiday. He decided against it. If there was any hitch, it would have been better to have said nothing. When the news came through it would excuse all delays.

  “Paris, eh?” said Sergeant Gwilliam, after lunch that day. “You want to watch your step.”

  “I shall be staying,” said Petrella, “with my great-aunt. Aged eighty-two.”

  “Well, mind you don’t keep the old lady out of bed,” said Gwilliam.

  Detective Constable Wilmot was the youngest of the not-very-aged detective staff of Highside, and rather a protégé of Petrella. As they were all packing up to go home that evening Wilmot took him aside and said, “When you’re in Paris, do you think you could give someone a letter for me?”

  Petrella managed not to look surprised. “Yes, I could easily do that,” he said.

  “It’s a girl,” said Wilmot, blushing. “Perhaps I’d better explain about it.”

  “No reason to, if you don’t want to.”

  “There’s nothing to it, really. I’ve been writing to her. She’s been writing to me. Penpals. It started with something I seen in a magazine. I asked once or twice for a photograph, only she never sent me one.”

  “I see,” said Petrella. “So you’d like me to deliver your next letter by hand, take a good look at her, and see if she’s worth writing to.”

  “Thassit,” said Wilmot. He had a great respect for Petrella’s acumen. “If she turns out to be some old bag with dropped arches, I won’t bother to write any more, see. But if she’s a fizzer – well, that’s different.”

  Petrella was on the point of saying that as long as she wrote interesting letters he couldn’t see that it mattered much what she looked like, when he realised that he would be being priggish. So he simply said, “Write her name and address down and I’ll see what I can do. If she’s terrific, I might take her on myself.”

  Wilmot grinned and scribbled something on a piece of paper, which Petrella put into his wallet and forgot all about in the excitement and pleasure of organising his departure.

  His father, who was a believer in the comfort and dignity of travel, had sent him the money for his fare, and Petrella had booked a sleeper on the night ferry from Victoria. This is a very pleasant way to go to France. He climbed into his berth, and was asleep before the train was clear of the London suburbs. After that he woke twice. First, when the train stopped at Folkestone, and in the sudden stillness he heard the rattling of the chains and bolts as the carriages were locked to the ship; and some hours after that, to the gentle pitching of the summer-calm Channel. The next time he opened his eyes, fruit trees were flashing past the window, and the sleeping-car attendant, who seemed to have been transmogrified into a Frenchman, was telling him that breakfast was served.

  It was when he stepped out of the Gare du Nord, and the summer heat of Paris hit him in the face, that he remembered Wilmot’s letter.

  Having no intention of imposing himself upon his elderly relative earlier than he need, he had deposited his bag in the consigne, intending to spend the day picking up his acquaintance with Paris where he had left it off some three years before.

  Paris was like that. Not a woman, demanding constant attention, but a man, whose friendship you could enjoy, abandon, and take up again without the least hard feeling, exactly where you had dropped it.

  He would have his midday meal at the Ruban Bleu, in a side street of the Place de l’Opéra; and his evening meal at the Beaux Arts, behind the Quai des Augustins. Between times, he would stroll slowly due west from the Petit Carousel right down to the Bois, and then back again by the Avenue Victor Hugo, where he would tantalise himself by imagining the things he would buy if he were a very rich man.

  First, though, for Wilmot’s
girlfriend.

  He read the name and address. Mlle Natalie Arture, 97 Rue Antoine, 18. He turned the pages of the street guide. There was only one Rue Antoine in the Eighteenth Arrondissement, and that, fortunately, was quite near the Gare du Nord. It was shown as a small, rather crooked street, running north from the Place de la Goutte d’Or.

  Turn left at the end of the station. Then right, straight on for about two hundred yards, then right again. His nose glued to his street map Petrella took very little note of his surroundings. He crossed the Place de la Goutte d’Or. It seemed curiously empty for nine o’clock on a fine summer morning. There were two cafés in the Place, but neither of them had its sun awnings lowered or its chairs and tables out. The hush was sabbatical.

  Petrella located the Rue Antoine. It was even more crooked than the plan had suggested; a canyon of a street; tall, uninteresting houses rising to the sky on either side; the pavé chipped and dirty; no pavement, but a runnel of what he hoped was only water down the middle of the street.

  For a moment he hesitated. As in all Paris streets, the numbering started at the point nearest the river; which meant that No. 97 would be a good way down this unsavoury looking trap. Then it seemed to him that he was being unduly squeamish. Having got so far, it was silly not to complete his task.

  It was the silence that was unnerving. The street itself was quite empty; the few shops that he passed were closed and barred; all windows giving on the street were shuttered. Halfway along he came to a place, round a sharp bend, where the cobblestones which formed the pavé had been hacked up and removed. It afforded no obstacle to a pedestrian who could jump it, if nimble enough, or climb down into the shallow ditch and up on the other side. But nothing on wheels could have got past.

  It was in his mind that he had seen something like it before, and then he remembered: the streets in the Moorish quarter in Seville had been so broken, to prevent motorists straying where they should not, but that had been during the plague epidemic.

  The memory brought him up all standing. Then he reflected that what he was thinking was nonsense. There would have been police, officials, notices warning pedestrians; all the apparatus of a cordon sanitaire. He was letting his imagination run away with him.