Petrella could think of nothing to say.
“Don’t imagine, however, that I condone direct disobedience. It’s a thing you can get away with only once in your professional career. Always supposing you intend to continue in your career. Superintendent Haxtell said something about your resigning.”
“No, sir,” said Petrella. “That was a mistake.”
“I’m glad about that,” said Romer.
On his way out Petrella ran into Sergeant Blinder, who said, “Oh, there you are. I understand you’ve been upsetting the Fingerprint System, now. If you’ve thought up something better, you might let me know.”
“Hadn’t you heard?” said Petrella. “It’s all being changed.”
“All–?”
“The whole thing. Fingerprints are out. Everyone is to be classified by their electronic reflective index. The new American system. It’s quite infallible–”
“Tcha!” said Sergeant Blinder.
Petrella went on his way. Outside Scotland Yard, between the western entrance and the Cenotaph, there stands a public house where generations of policemen have slaked their thirst. Petrella found Sergeant Dodds propping up the saloon bar.
“What cheer, Patrick,” said Dodds. “Wattle it be?”
“Oh, half a pint,” said Petrella cautiously.
“Pint of bitter for my friend,” said Dodds. “I’ve got some news for you.”
“You’ve decided to turn over a new leaf.”
“I’ve turned over so many of those,” said Dodds, “that I’ve pretty nearly finished the book. No – it’s Chris. He’s handed in his cards.”
“Chris?”
“Who else? Said he couldn’t afford to stay on a minute longer. His publishers are roaring to go, and he’s getting a personality spot on TV. It’s all fixed. Well, I ask you! Bungho.”
“Bungho,” said Petrella.
“His first book’s out in the autumn. Murder, Mayhem, and Mirth it’s called. I get two mentions in it. ‘My old friend Albert Dodds agreed with me’ – page ninety-two, and ‘Sergeant Dodds expressed a contrary view’ – page a hundred and four.”
“I believe you’re making the whole thing up.”
“Cross my heart, I’m not. It’ll be in the Gazette tomorrow.” Sergeant Dodds picked up three darts from the counter and flung one of them idly into the dartboard. “One case I don’t mind betting he leaves out though, that’s the Binford Reservoir Case. Between you and me, it wasn’t really one of our best.”
The second dart followed the first, landing a fraction of an inch from it.
A sharp-looking character removed himself from the end of the bar, rolled forward, and said, “Either of you gentlemen interested in a game of darts?”
“Well, I’m not much of a hand at it,” said Sergeant Dodds, throwing the third dart which, curiously enough, missed the board altogether. “But I don’t mind having a game if you insist.”
The sharp gentleman produced a well-worn set of darts from a leather container, and threw one into the centre of the board. It landed in the 25. Sergeant Dodds, without taking apparent aim, threw his dart into the 50, and said, “That gives me the start. I usually play for five bob a leg, ten bob on the game. OK?”
Petrella left hastily.
18
A Day Trip
To all Stations of the Metropolitan Police Force and to all Chief Constables of Borough and County Forces: Most Urgent. It is desired to trace a lady, at one time passing under the name of Eileen Joyce Harman. Thought to be between fifty-five and sixty-five years of age and to be suffering from a deformity of one leg necessitating the wearing of a surgical boot…
Tuesday was a difficult day. Even Haxtell had little idea of what was happening and, being a wise man, turned himself grimly to routine. The successive impact of Corinne Hart and the Reservoir Case had disrupted the divisional detective work at Highside and a half dozen of more or less routine jobs were piled up for his consideration.
Petrella found it impossible to cultivate the same detachment. The fact that nearly three dozen milk bottles were missing from Argos Road and the coin box of a telephone kiosk on Helenwood Common had been broken open and rifled failed to monopolize his attention. In the afternoon he gave up trying and made an excuse to slip over to Hounds Green.
Mr Lundgren was surprised, but evidently pleased, to see him.
“I’ve been meaning to get hold of you,” he said. “My wife and I were wondering if you could join us in a game of bridge one evening.”
Petrella said there was nothing he would like more, but did not deceive the kindly resident engineer.
“You didn’t come over here to talk about bridge,” he said. “What’s on your mind?”
“It’s Ricketts,” said Petrella.
“You’ve found out where he is?”
“No,” said Petrella. “I mean, yes. I can’t tell you anything about this new development, not just at the moment. What I wanted to do was to have a look at the things Ricketts left behind. I remember you told me you’d got them.”
“They’re in the basement, here. You can look at them now if you’d like. There’s not a lot. We’ll pick the key up from the desk. It struck me at the time as rather odd–”
“What was that?”
“Well, I rather gathered, from what you told me and what I read in the papers, that the idea was that Ricketts was so upset by the goings-on that night that he left in a flurry. If that’s right, isn’t it remarkable he left so little behind? Wait there a moment, while I switch the light on?”
“Ricketts was a remarkable man,” said Petrella. “I don’t believe he did anything in a flurry. A hurry, perhaps, not a flurry. I imagine that his departure was most carefully planned. I don’t mean that he knew exactly when he was going to leave, but he always visualized that he might have to pull out sometime, and quickly.”
“That’s exactly the impression you’d get from looking through his things. He didn’t leave a stitch of clothing except the stuff which was actually at the laundry. You’ll find everything he did leave in that big packing case. And there’s really nothing that you could call a personal belonging. Just sheets and pillowcases, and two sets of curtains and some crockery and cooking stuff. Most of it bought from local shops. I imagine. In fact, I remember he had to have all his meals out, to start with. So he can’t have brought much household stuff with him when he came. That rug was in the front of the fire in the sitting-room. Not in very good taste, is it? Another odd thing. The man who cleared up for us commented on it. He didn’t find a single scrap of paper. Even the waste-paper basket had been emptied.”
“It was too much to expect that he’d make any obvious mistakes. I did have a faint hope that as his actual departure was so quick he might have forgotten something–”
“We found these gardening things in the shed. He was a keen gardener. Did a lot of digging. And I seem to remember that he was a bit of a handyman, too. He had a plane and a good set of chisels. But those seem to have gone with him. What–?”
He broke off. His audience was no longer with him. Petrella was on his knees in front of the now nearly empty packing case. Slowly he dipped into it, slowly drew forth a pink vase, ornamented with tiny green oyster shells; shells which formed the words “A Present from Whitstable”.
“By God,” he said at last. “It’s a chance.”
By twelve o’clock the next morning the chance had grown into a bare possibility.
Superintendent Denmark, the chief officer of the Whitstable and Herne Bay Constabulary, had started with considerable scepticism about the whole project.
“Millions of souvenirs like that sold every year,” he said. “All it means is that this man knew somebody who had once spent a holiday at Whitstable. Isn’t that right?”
“It’s only a chance, of course,” said Petrella.
“Or he may have spent a holiday here himself. Of course, we’ll do what we can. I saw the teletype. Wasn’t much real information there, was there now?
”
“It was all we had,” said Petrella humbly. He was in no position to command. The successful working out of his hunch depended entirely on the co-operation of this fiery little man with the ginger-coloured moustache adhering like a blob of bitter marmalade to his aggressive upper lip.
“What did occur to me,” said Petrella – “I expect you’d had very much the same idea – was that we might get at it through the doctor’s. People who have a deformity like that have to have a regular check-up. It isn’t the foot itself. It’s the hip–”
“Yes. That wouldn’t be too difficult. We could get a list from the doctor’s.”
It turned out to be quite a long list. Fortunately a number of candidates could be disposed of at once. Either they were the wrong age, or the wrong sex, or other disqualifying circumstances arose.
“Can’t be Mrs Toomey,” said Denmark. “She’s related to my mother. A most respectable old lady.”
Mrs Toomey was struck off the list.
By the afternoon there were three real possibilities left. All of them were ladies of past middle age, about whose background little was known. And all of them had at least one gentleman of approximately the same age recently come to stay with them, in the capacity of family, lodger, or paying guest.
“Well, there you are,” said Denmark. “Short of calling on them, I don’t know how you’re going to pick the winner. What’s he done, by the way? I ought to have asked you that before.”
“The known charges,” said Petrella, “are double murder and bigamy. There might be further charges of larceny to follow.”
“I shouldn’t worry about any further charges myself,” said Denmark. “If you’re going visiting, you’d better have one of my men with you.”
“If we do find him, sir, we shall have to go gently. He’s a very clever man, very alert, and ready to disappear at the drop of a hat. I think, if you don’t mind, I’d like to make a little preliminary reconnaissance first. I promise I won’t move without letting you know.”
The next two hours were busy, and at the end of them he had dismissed Mrs Cartland from his calculations. He had seen the male relative who had recently joined her at Whitstable, and he had turned out to be a pale young man, very little older than Petrella himself. On the other hand, as between Mrs Williams and Mrs Duhamel, there was still very little to choose. Both were of the right age, both wore undeniable surgical boots, both took in occasional summer boarders and both had been joined “about two months ago” by a gentleman a little younger than themselves.
It was at the general stores, where he was pursuing his inquiries in the character of a prospective lodger, that a genuine inspiration visited him.
“I wonder,” he said, “if that would be the Mrs Duhamel I knew in Yarmouth. It’s not a common name, is it?”
The assistant agreed that it wasn’t a common name. He imagined it might be French.
“One thing I do remember about her. If it’s the same woman, that is. She had a fine collection of matchboxes. “
The assistant shook his head. He had never heard anything like that about Mrs Duhamel. As Petrella turned away disappointed, he added, “Of course, if it had been Mrs Williams now–”
“Does Mrs Williams collect?”
“Does Mrs Williams collect,” said the assistant. “There’s scarcely a day goes by but she’s in here bothering us for a new sort. Of course, we’re very sorry for her, with her infirmity, poor lady, but sometimes when we’re rushed with customers–”
But Petrella was already out of the shop. At the eleventh hour, after all rational chances had failed, after all the favourites had tumbled, a real, genuine, hundred-to-one outsider had come romping home. He wished Bill Borden had been there. They could have had a drink on it.
“It certainly sounds hopeful,” said Denmark. “Now let’s do a bit of thinking. Bay View – that’s the line of small houses actually on the front. Number 36 would be pretty nearly the end one. There’s an open stretch of sand dunes at one side. We’ll have to guard that. And a sort of pleasure park – it’s shut just now – at the back. Two men there. And one man along the sea wall on the other side. We needn’t worry about the front. He won’t swim. Not in this weather.”
Petrella was glad to see that the superintendent was taking the job seriously. He had a feeling about Ricketts which was beginning to border dangerously on the superstitious; that he was no ordinary man but a creature with curious instincts of his own, attuned to danger and sensitive to threats.
“Do you think he’s carrying a gun?”
“I don’t know, sir. He could be. He’s used one before.”
“I think we’ll keep quiet about that. Don’t want to make my people nervous. Now, then – as soon as we’re all in position we’ll walk up the front steps and knock at the door. You’ve got that photograph. Think you can identify him?”
“Oh, yes,” said Petrella. “I’m sure about that.”
He couldn’t have said why he was so sure.
It was five o’clock by this time. The wind, which had been blowing great guns all day, had blown the clouds out of the sky, and a pale sun was now looking down on a wrinkled grey sea.
As Petrella and the superintendent approached No. 36 the front door, which stood at the head of a little flight of steps, opened gently, and Ricketts came out. He was wearing a soft cap, of old-fashioned cut, a muffler, twisted twice round his neck, with the ends tucked well down inside his coat, and he was carrying a stick. Petrella had not the slightest doubt who it was. He had made no sign to the superintendent, but the superintendent knew, too. The two men walked on past the house. Out of the tail of his eye Petrella saw Ricketts come down the front steps, and turn towards the town.
As soon as they were out of sight they turned too. Three of the men they had posted were visible. The superintendent waved them after him, and hoped they would understand.
Pausing every now and then to take deep breaths of sea air, and once to purchase a packet of cigarettes, Ricketts made his way eastward with the concentration of a man who is following a known routine.
“Further he gets from home the better,” said the superintendent. “We’ll take him when he turns.”
But Ricketts showed no intention of turning. He walked steadily forward, keeping the sea on his left. Ahead lay the old harbour. Beyond that, the wastes of Tankerton.
When he reached the harbour, Ricketts swung left, out on to the short stone pier, and stood for an instant at the far end of it, outlined against a sky now lemon yellow under the setting sun, then turned back.
The two men barred his way.
“Excuse me,” said the superintendent, “but is your name Ricketts?”
The man had stopped, a yard from them. He made no attempt to answer. He was looking to right and left, weighing chances, calculating risks. They might have had the world to themselves.
“Look out!” yelled the superintendent, and threw himself forward, as Petrella ducked forward; and the next moment rose, shamefacedly, from his knees. For what the man had produced from his pocket was an ordinary cherrywood pipe, which he proceeded calmly to fill.
“What’s the big idea?” he said. “Weaving about like that. Yes. My name’s Ricketts. Who the devil are you?”
19
In the Court of Criminal Appeal
Petrella sat alone in the crypt bar of the Royal Courts of Justice. It was eleven o’clock in the morning and he was drinking a cup of milky coffee.
Somewhere above his head, in that rambling wedding cake of a building, in the court of the Lord Chief Justice of England, the Lord Chief himself, assisted by Mr Justice Penworthy and Mr Justice Meiklejohn, was considering the case of The Queen against Howton.
Up to a late hour on the previous night – and Petrella’s head still ached at the recollection of that endless conference, of the atmosphere made fouler by the pipe smoked by the director of public prosecutions, of Barstow’s red face getting redder and redder as the hours went past – up, in fact,
to the early hours of that morning it had not been decided precisely what action to take.
“The only absolutely cast-iron piece of evidence we’ve got,” said the director, “is the print on the gun. That corresponds, as nearly as a seven-week-old fingerprint can be expected to correspond with anything, with the index finger of Ricketts’ right hand. It’s not a strong identification, but we’d probably get it accepted, if the rest of the case stands up.”
“The rest of the case,” said Barstow, “is that Ricketts was the dead woman’s lover, had been chiselling her, and shot her and her husband when it came to a showdown.”
“Shot her,” said the director, gently, “with a gun which the Crown has recently spent a strenuous two days proving in court to be the property of Howton.”
An uncomfortable silence had ensued.
“If only Ricketts wasn’t so damned cool,” said Barstow. “He hasn’t made a shadow of a mistake since we took him inside.” He added, petulantly, “Most murderers give themselves away as soon as they start opening their mouths.”
The argument had gone round in a circle, and Petrella had slept, and woken with a guilty start, and found himself unnoticed, and slept again.
In the end the director had said, “We could ask for an adjournment. I’m against that. This isn’t a case which is going to look any better in a week’s time. We’ve got all the facts we’re likely to get. It’s simply the view we take of them. I’ll have a word with the attorney general and Younger in the morning, and we’ll abide by what they say. You’d better all stand by in case you’re wanted.”
So Petrella stood by. And ordered another cup of coffee.
Blood and Judgement Page 19