“In other words,” said Petrella, “you’re backing instinct. I’m not saying you’re wrong. It can be a better horse than science.”
On the following morning he took the Underground to the Bank Station and walked down Moorgate. It was nearing the lunchhour and men and girls were pouring out onto the pavements into the mild February sunlight, making the most of their sixty minutes of freedom. Barnaby House was a smallish building on the west side of the road. Petrella spent some time strolling along the opposite pavement, keeping an eye on the door. He noticed three very attractive-looking girls come out together and make off down the street. Then a couple of paunchy middle-aged men, a severe lady in glasses and a group of young men.
When it seemed clear that most of the inhabitants were out of the building he ventured into the hall. A board gave him the information he wanted. Tillotson (Middle East) Agencies occupied the first floor. The ground floor was Cranmer and Cranmer, Chartered Surveyors and the remaining floors were occupied by Benjamin Dalby and Partners, Solicitors and Commissioners for Oaths.
Petrella made a note of the names and took himself back to the Oval. He found Mr. Tasker in his office, lunching off sandwiches and bottled Bass.
“Dalbys,” said Mr. Tasker, picking his teeth to extract a shred of ham. “Yes. I know them. Nice little firm. Shouldn’t have said they’d touch anything crooked.”
“I wasn’t thinking of them as being crooked. It’s their neighbours I’m interested in. Do you happen to know any of the partners?”
Mr. Tasker consulted the Law List and said, “As a matter of fact I do. Young Buckle used to be an articled clerk here. Lazy young devil. I could give him a ring. Have to tell him some sort of story.”
“Tell him the truth. Say I’m interested in one of the parties who uses the building.”
Mr. Tasker looked at his watch. He said, “We won’t catch him at the office now. Never took less than two hours for his lunch when he was articled here. Probably takes three now he’s a partner. I’ll ring him this afternoon. There are plenty of good pubs in the City. Offer him lunch at one of them tomorrow.”
Young Mr. Buckle turned out to be an entertaining lunch companion. He said several disrespectful things about Mr. Tasker, but obviously admired him. When Petrella brought the conversation round to Tillotsons, Mr. Buckle said, “As soon as I heard you were interested in someone in the building I guessed it must be them. They’re a mystery outfit, they really are.”
“In what way?”
“Well, they’ve got an expensive set of offices and a super line in staff, but they never seem to have any customers. And what’s more – you can’t help noticing these things when you work in the same building – they never seem to get any mail.”
“Maybe they do all their work by telephone and telex.”
“It’s possible. But in that case, what do you suppose those lovelies do all day? Sit on their boss’s knee?”
“Would they be the three girls I saw coming out of the place yesterday?”
“If they were worth a second look, they must have been. Cranmers seem to go in for an all-male staff and we haven’t got a female in the place under forty. The idea being to keep our minds on our work I imagine.”
“Those three were certainly worth looking at,” agreed Petrella.
“And I’ll tell you another odd thing about them. They go away and come back again. Did you notice one of them, a brunette with a snub nose and a page-boy haircut?”
“Yes. She was the one in the middle. What about her?”
“She disappeared just after Christmas. Not this Christmas, the one before. Then she came back, sometime in May, and the red-head took off. She was back in October.”
Petrella listened, fascinated. He said, “Is anyone missing now?”
“I’ll say. It’s the blonde. Pick of the bunch. Shoulder-length hair and green eyes. She went off about the time the red-head came back.”
“You seem to keep a close eye on their comings and goings.”
Young Mr. Buckle said, without a blush on his downy cheeks, “I’m a devoted bird watcher.”
Petrella returned thoughtfully to Patton Street. He felt certain that he had his hand on one of the threads, one of the clues to the labyrinth, but he could not yet disentangle it. Why should two business men keep three or four attractive and presumably expensive girls in an office, doing nothing all day. Unless, of course, they had insatiable sexual appetites, but then, surely, it would be cheaper, rents in the City being what they were, to have installed them in flats. Maybe they had got a perfectly genuine tie-up with the Middle East. There was plenty of money there and a smashing girl would be a useful maker of contacts. But somehow he doubted it. Like Sergeant Ambrose, he was guided in such matters more by instinct than by reasoning.
He said to Lampier, “You’ve got one of those candid-camera arrangements. I want you to photograph three young ladies. You can probably get them all in one shot as they come out for lunch. Only for God’s sake don’t be caught doing it. Then have the three faces screened and enlarged.”
A few evenings later Samuel strolled across to talk to Manfred. He found his brother listening to the long-range weather forecast. He said, “It seems that we are to have more than the average amount of rain this month. Some high winds to start with, dying down later, with possibilities of fog. No ice.”
“It sounds just what the doctor ordered,” said Samuel. “A few fog patches on the fourteenth, but no ice on the road. It will suit us down to the ground.”
“Eight days to go.”
Samuel said, “I saw an advertisement in the Sunday papers. I’ve been making some enquiries about it. A villa in the hills to the east of Beirut. Twenty thousand pounds sterling, or the equivalent in local currency.”
“Are you thinking of buying it?”
“I’ve made an offer.”
“I see,” said Manfred. “So you have decided it is time we retired?”
“Our local contacts could organise the transfer of our funds. We should lose fifteen per cent on the transaction, but it would be worth it.”
“Is something worrying you?”
“A lot of little things. There seem to have been one or two people, with nothing to do, on the pavement outside Barnaby House lately. It could be my imagination.”
“And?”
Samuel said slowly, “I am not happy about Julie.”
“You needn’t worry about her. I have traced her family. It wasn’t difficult. They live in the Liverpool suburb of Litherland. Until Julie came to London she had spent all her life there. The envelope was obviously planted for Ma Dalby. But she’s not a police spy.”
“A greedy little girl who knows too much could be more dangerous than a police spy,” said Samuel. “Remember also, she has never actually done a job for us yet. That leaves her free to talk if she wants to.”
“What are you suggesting?” said Manfred. He was beginning to sound angry.
“Nothing drastic. I suggest we get the boys to throw a scare into her. Enough to keep her quiet until after the fourteenth. That’s all.”
Manfred thought about it. He said, “I agree that we don’t want to take any chances at this particular time. But if you do what you suggest, I think you will be making trouble where none existed before.”
“Let’s sleep on it,” said Samuel. He looked at his watch. “Adams should be ringing.”
“He’s usually very punctual,” said Manfred. “Have a drink.” He was half-way to the drink table when the telephone rang. He picked up the receiver, and conducted a one-sided conversation which consisted chiefly of grunts on his part. Finally he said, “I’ll pick you up in my car at the road junction in the middle of Blackheath at seven o’clock tomorrow.”
His brother said, “Has there been some development?”
“Yes and no. I asked Adams to find out if there was any particular reason why he should have been followed the other night. He thinks he has found the reason. I am going to discuss it with hi
m. If he is right, we may have to think very carefully about it.”
“I leave the thinking to you,” said Samuel, “with every confidence.” He put an arm round his brother’s broad shoulders and gave him an affectionate squeeze.
Petrella sat up in bed and said, “Of course.”
“Of course what?” said his wife sleepily.
“It must be the answer.”
“Go to sleep,” said his wife.
Ideas which arrive at two o’clock in the morning sometimes turn out to be chimeras, but at breakfast time the idea still looked solid. As soon as he got to Patton Street, he sent for Sergeant Ambrose. He said, “Go round to these three addresses, see the managing director first and then get hold of the chap who’s in charge of hirings and firings.”
“The personnel manager.”
“Right.”
“And what do I ask him?”
“I’ve written down two dates opposite each name. I want to know if a girl was taken on around the first date and quit around the second.”
“They’re all fairly large outfits.”
“Certainly. But I’m not talking about a girl in the factory. I mean someone who had a job in the executive office. Secretary or P. A. to one of the top bods. Something like that.”
“And if they say yes?”
“Show them the photographs.”
The long-range weather forecast had got away to an accurate start. A cold, heavy rain was coming straight down out of a black sky. Mr. Adams turned up the collar of his coat and cursed Manfred Tillotson for choosing such a desolate spot for his rendezvous.
A Vauxhall Magnum drew up to the kerb. Manfred said, “Get in. Take your coat off and throw it on to the back seat.”
The car heater was on and the interior was warm and comfortable. Manfred said, “There’s a flask in the pocket beside you. Help yourself.” They drove on for a few minutes in silence. They seemed to be making their way down off the heath, towards the river.
At the bottom of Maze Hill, Manfred swung the car into a side turning, drew up, and said, “Well, what’s the answer?”
“I’m afraid Mr. Lloyd’s getting careless.”
“In what way?”
“When he paid one of our customers in cash he gave him thirty of the new tenners from the Corinth job.”
“Thirty?” said Manfred thoughtfully. “He might have thinned them out a bit more than that. Still, it’s all part of the system isn’t it?”
“It wasn’t the number of notes, it was the person he gave them to. Chief Inspector Petrella.”
“He did what?”
“That’s right. Petrella’s our local gaffer at Patton Street.”
There was a long silence whilst Manfred thought this over. Then he said, “We all know the Yard keeps an eye on senior officers’ accounts. That must be how they spotted it.” He was silent again, thinking out the ramifications of this new development. It had been worrying when he had not known why Adams had been followed. Now that he had the explanation it was less alarming. But there was a possibility that had to be checked.
“Is there any chance,” he said, “that Lloyd did it on purpose?”
Mr. Adams turned his head. The car had been carefully parked half-way between lamp posts. There was not enough light for him to see Manfred’s face clearly. He said, “I think it was just a slip up.”
“But you’re not sure. Why?”
“He’s been seeing a lot of one of the sergeants from Patton Street. A Welshman called Blencowe. They talk rugby football.”
“All the time?” said Manfred. “Or just when anyone else is listening.”
“It’s in the Wheelwrights. They have a couple of beers there most evenings. I didn’t think—”
“That’s right,” said Manfred. “You didn’t think.”
But he was thinking, turning over possibilities, making plans against a contingency which ought to have been foreseen and now had to be dealt with. He was silent for so long that, in the end, it was Mr. Adams who spoke. He said, “The fact is, he’s getting old. And tired. I don’t think he means to tell them anything, but if they keep hammering at him, he might fall apart.”
“Don’t upset yourself about it,” said Manfred. “It’s not your problem. I’ll drop you at your flat.”
When Julie left Chesterfield Court at about seven o’clock, two evenings later, she had in her handbag a letter from her mother. It had reached her by a roundabout route, through the good offices of a friend of a friend. Mrs. Marsh was not a great letter writer. The four pages were punctuated with exclamation marks and scored with underlining, but their message could have been put in two words, “Come home”.
Julie considered the proposition coolly. There had been moments, in the last week, when she had sensed undercurrents of distrust in the curious little circle into which she had fallen. Nobody had said anything. Possibly what had worried her were things which would have been said before and weren’t being said now. On the other hand, the conditions were easy and the pay was fabulous. She had a sudden picture of home. The streets of Litherland. Men and girls trooping off at eight o’clock on a grey morning to a day’s work and trooping back again in the evening tired, but planning a night out at the local with a crowd of boys; boys with unsuccessful moustaches; boys who smelled of beer and cigarettes and talked about nothing but soccer. It was familiar and it was safe; but my God, it was dull.
She was still thinking about this when she got off the train at Borough Station and started to walk home to her top-floor flat in Manciple Street. She was half-way there when the car drew up just ahead of her and a man got out. She had seen him twice before with Manfred, but didn’t know his name. He said, “Hop in chick, we’ll take you home.”
“Not worth it,” said Julie. “It’s only two streets on.”
“Come on.”
“What do you think my legs are for?”
“I could give you one or two answers to that,” said Mason coming closer. “But don’t let’s stop here all night discussing it. Just get in.”
“I told you, no.”
Mason came so close to her that she had to step back. She found herself up against railings. Mason said, lowering his face towards her, “In my book, little girls do what they’re told. If they don’t, they’re apt to lose things. Like, say, bits of their face.”
She saw the bright gleam of steel in his right hand, held down by his side. She also saw that a man was coming along the pavement towards her.
She screamed out, “Leave me alone.”
The newcomer rolled to a halt. He was as big as Mason and was smiling in a good-natured way. He said, “Phwat goes on here?” The lilt in his voice proclaimed an Irishman.
“I should advise you to keep walking, chum,” said Mason.
“Would you now,” said the newcomer. “And suppose I were to ask the little lady if she was in trouble.”
“He’s trying to get me into that car,” said Julie.
“If you don’t care to go with him,” said the newcomer judicially, “then there’s no reason you should. No reason at all.”
By this time the driver had got out of the car. Mason said, “For the last time, if you don’t keep your fucking nose out of our business, you’ll get fucking well hurt.”
The newcomer gave a long whistle, apparently of surprise. He said, “Hey, Patrick. Would you believe it! I’m being intimidated.”
A second man had appeared on the scene. He said, “Whadder you know?” He had approached very quietly. Mason could see a third figure in the shadows behind him. He sensed that there might be others. He was outside his own territory. It was no moment for taking chances. He swung round, signalled to the driver and climbed back into the car.
The three men on the pavement watched in silence as the car drove off. The first one said, “We could use that taxi of yours, Len.”
“It’s just round the corner. I’ll fetch it.”
“You do that. The little lady’s had a bad fright. I can see that.”<
br />
“It’s very good of you,” said Julie faintly. Her legs seemed to be in danger of giving way under her.
“Think nothing of it,” said the first man. “It’s a sad world if we can’t spread a little light and happiness. You go with Len. He’ll take you home right enough.”
Julie said, “It’s only three streets away. It’s hardly worth bothering.” But she got in.
“You come from Liverpool, I guess,” said Len. “There’s a coincidence, for it’s my own home town.”
As they drove off, Julie was coming to a decision. All her money and her important possessions were in her handbag. There was nothing in her flat that she couldn’t replace. She opened the glass partition and said, “I’ve changed my mind. Do you think you could drive me to Euston?”
Len seemed unsurprised. He executed a tight U-turn and set off in the opposite direction. When they got to Euston, his kindness was not exhausted. He parked the taxi against the kerb, put a glove over the meter and said, “I’ll come along with you whilst you find your train. That is, if you’ve no objection.”
He was a square, solid comforting sort of person. Julie smiled at him and said, “I’d like that, Len. Are you sure you won’t get into trouble leaving your cab there?”
“No trouble I can’t get out of,” said Len.
They found that an Inter-City train was leaving for Liverpool in ten minutes, which gave them time to buy her a ticket and some newspapers to read.
Len waved to her in a fatherly way as the train drew out. Then he moved off to the nearest telephone box—
“Get round to her place, then, and wait for her,” said Manfred.
“We did that,” said Mason. “We waited more than an hour. She never turned up. I think she’s scarpered.”
“Scarpered where?”
“Back home to Liverpool would be my guess.”
“Did you hurt her?”
“We didn’t touch her. Never had a chance. This other lot turned up. Paddies. Four or five of ‘em.”
Samuel, who had been listening on an extension line said, “What makes you think she’s gone back to Liverpool?”
Petrella at 'Q' Page 14