Petrella at 'Q'

by Michael Gilbert

  “Really, Inspector,” said Eric Duxford. “I’m not sure what you’re insinuating. It’s well known that he was practically illiterate—”

  “All that was known about him,” said Petrella, “was that he chose to initial documents with a personal hieroglyphic. Quite a common practice in some countries. When he did have to write his name on an official paper for instance, he was perfectly capable of doing so.” As he spoke he was laying on the desk in front of the lawyer the documents which Mrs. Hinn had produced. These were a form of application to the Home Office for naturalisation dated two years previously, a ten-year-old passport in their joint names and a certificate of marriage. Mr. Duxford stared at them, his face nearly as white as his client’s.

  “You will observe,” said Petrella, “that not only does he write his name in a characteristic but perfectly legible hand, but he also spells it in the Nordic way, Hynn.”

  Both men looked at Mr. Lempard, but he seemed to be incapable of speaking.

  Petrella said, “I must warn you that a very serious charge may be made against you. A charge of forgery. Mr. Duxford will advise you about your rights.”

  Mr. Lempard stared at him without speaking. Petrella could see his lips moving.

  “What first gave you the idea that it might be murder?” said Watterson.

  “It was a tiny thing,” said Petrella. “When I told him he was likely to be charged with forgery, I’ll swear his first reaction was relief.”

  “Try explaining that to a jury.”

  “And why did he cut off the bottom of the last page? Obviously because there were bloodstains on it.”

  “Always supposing he did cut it off.”

  “And look at those two tiny spots, close to the signature. There. One of them looks almost like a full stop. If you hold them up to the light you can see a sort of reddish tinge.”

  Watterson held the paper up to the light and said, “If they’re spots of blood, the laboratory will tell us quick enough. But suppose they are. What does it amount to? They could have come from a cut finger or a nose bleed. They don’t add up to murder.”

  “I’m not sure that it was murder,” said Petrella. “My guess would be that Mr. Hinn agreed to the money that was offered to him – or said he was going to agree. The document was got ready and when he went round to sign it that night he changed his mind. Perhaps he thought he could squeeze a bit more money out of the situation. Lempard’s a big man and he’s got a hair-trigger temper. I think he hit Mr. Hinn a lot harder than he meant, and found himself with an unsigned document and a dead man on his hands.”

  “Since you’ve been gazing into the crystal ball,” said Watterson sourly, “perhaps you can tell me what he did with the body?”

  “If the first part’s right, there’s not much doubt about the next bit. He’d pick the little man up, carry him down those private stairs and put him into the back of the station-wagon. He’d need a bit of luck there, but it was dark and there wouldn’t be many people about in the Mews at that time of night.”

  “And then?”

  “Drop it in the river, dump it in Epping Forest, bury it in his own garden.”

  Watterson thought about it. He said, “It’s full of ifs and buts and guesswork and precious little hard evidence. I can tell you straight away that the Director won’t underwrite a murder charge on the strength of one hunch and two drops of blood.” He thought about it some more. Petrella waited patiently. He knew his man.

  Finally Watterson grunted and said, “All right. If the laboratory says these spots are human blood, we might have enough to justify a few precautionary measures. Lempard’s house is in ‘P’ Division. I could ask Haxtell to have it watched.”

  “I don’t think he’ll try to bolt,” said Petrella. “He’s got too much sense.”

  Many of his guesses were shortly to be proved right, but over this one he was wrong.

  A month later, as proceedings leading to a charge of forgery ground slowly forward, with reports from handwriting experts and statements from Mrs. Hinn and others, Lempard decided to leave. He had made a number of discreet preparations and on a rainy night towards the end of April, he drove to Heathrow Airport, unaware that a car was following him and that a telephone message had gone before him. The proceedings at the airport were brisk and, for Mr. Lempard, uncomfortable. He could offer no explanation of why he was carrying ten thousand pounds in Swiss notes under the lining of his suitcase and a quantity of small but very valuable diamonds embedded in two cakes of soap in his sponge bag.

  A search warrant was now felt to be justified. The body of little Mr. Hinn was discovered, four feet down, in the rose-bed at the foot of Mr. Lempard’s well-kept garden and Mr. Lempard was charged with his murder.

  Mrs. Hinn’s claim to the money was conceded. Grudgingly and after considerable pressure, she gave up ten per cent of it to the finders, Fred Jury and Johnny Tredgett, who spent most of it in a celebration party which ended with both of them in the cells of Patton Street Police Station, charged with being drunk and disorderly and assaulting the police.

  Petrella took very little part in these final transactions. By that time other matters were occupying his attention fully.

  Mutiny at Patton Street

  It was half past six and it was getting dark when the knock on the door came. Mrs. Milton, the wife of Fred Milton the bookmaker, was just lifting the kettle from the gas-ring to make tea. She called through to her twelve-year-old daughter, Sylvia, “Go and see who it is, love.”

  Sylvia put down the magazine she was reading and got reluctantly to her feet. Nurse Patricia had just slapped the face of young Doctor Fosdyke and it was clear that young Doctor Fosdyke, who was tall and dark and had deep blue eyes, wasn’t going to take it lying down.

  Mrs. Milton heard her daughter’s high heels tittupping down the passage, heard the door open and then heard something that sounded like a scream quickly cut off. She put down the kettle and hurried back into the living-room, in time to be knocked down by a back-hand swipe across the eyes.

  From the floor, she saw a second man come into the room carrying Sylvia. He had one arm round her body and a big hand clapped over her mouth and nose. Both men were wearing masks made out of nylon stockings.

  The man who had hit Mrs. Milton, and who seemed, from his build and general appearance to be the younger of the two, sat down and stretched out his legs. He said to Sylvia, “One scream out of you, and I’ll kick your Ma’s head in. Understand?”

  Sylvia nodded. The man who was holding her let her go and she slipped down on to the floor and sat there, sobbing quietly.

  The young man swung one well-shod foot and hooked over a small table. A china dog, a glass vase and a framed photograph of Mr. and Mrs. Milton on their wedding day crashed together on to the floor. The young man then picked up the table, swung it round his head and pitched it into a dresser full of crockery.

  Mrs. Milton had climbed back on to her feet. She was still dazed. She said, “What—” and stopped.

  “Yes?” said the young man politely.

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “You’d better ask your old man when he comes home.”

  “Fred’s never done nothing to you.”

  “That’s right. He hasn’t done what he ought to have done. He hasn’t paid his dues. This your daughter?”

  “Yes.”

  “How old is she?”

  “Twelve.”

  The young man got up, walked across to Sylvia, put one hand down, grabbed the front of her dress, and jerked her up on to her knees. The dress ripped down the front.

  “She’s a big girl for her age, isn’t she?”

  Desperation in her eyes, Mrs. Milton bolted for the kitchen door. The young man pushed out a leg and tripped her. She fell forward, hitting her head on the door as she went down.

  “Like I was saying—” said the young man.

  In the room upstairs old Mrs. Milton, who was nearly eighty, had got out of her bed when she hea
rd the smash of glass and china. She was not a fast mover. First she tottered across to the window and drew up the blind. Then she padded slowly back to the electric light switch by the door. She knew what she had to do. Up, down. Light off. Light on. A second terrifying crash downstairs. Off, on. Darkness, light. Off, on. Darkness, light.

  Mrs. Robbins, who had the house which backed on to the Miltons, saw the agreed signal and ran for the telephone. When the two squad cars reached her house, she gabbled out an explanation. Sergeant Blencowe said, “On foot from here. You two with me, three round the back. Sharpish.”

  The older and larger of the two intruders put up a fight. It lasted for three seconds. Blencowe had a daughter of his own and was in no mood for picking daisies. He hit the man once, very low and, as he doubled up in agony, jerked a knee under his chin. The younger man had run for it and was half-way out of the kitchen window when Lampier caught hold of one foot and started to twist it. As the man was forced over on to his back, Lampier brought the sash of the window down across his throat.

  Fred Milton arrived as they were tidying up. The two men had been taken to Patton Street and Mrs. Milton was away being patched up in the casualty department of the local hospital. Sergeant Milo Roughead gave him a brief account of what had happened. When Mr. Milton had got over the first shock he said, “You’ll put these men away?”

  “For a long, long time,” said Milo. “In fact, with a bit of luck, we might be able to pick up the rest.”

  “If you can do that,” said Mr. Milton, who was short and fat, but not lacking in courage, “it’ll be worth it. Almost.”

  “It’ll be worth it quite,” said Milo. “We won’t need to bother your wife until the morning, but we’d like your daughter to come along and make a statement. I could drive her in my car.”

  “All right, Sylvie?” said Mr. Milton.

  Sylvia thought it was quite all right. The Sergeant was tall and dark, like young Doctor Fosdyke, and had deep blue eyes. She was feeling better already.

  “The older of the two,” said Petrella, “is a man called Dimitri Ossupov. On this occasion he was a conscript, rather than a volunteer.”

  “That’s his story,” said Superintendent Watterson.

  “Agreed. We’ve only his word for it. But I’ve got a feeling he might be telling the truth. He was in the leather business and was bought out by Augie the Pole. He got the money back to his family, who live on a farm near Cracow. I expect the Bank of England would be interested to know just how he did it. Anyway, he was planning to go back there and settle down to do a little fanning. He was more or less ordered to come out on this last job to keep an eye on young Stanislaus. He’s Augie’s kid brother.”

  “I see.”

  “What I was thinking—”

  “I know what you’re thinking,” said Watterson. “I could put it up to the legal boys. Evidence by an accessory. It’s not a line they’re too keen on. It might be worth it in this case.”

  “If it puts Augie away,” said Petrella, “it will surely be worth it. He’s a nasty customer.”

  Dimitri said much the same thing to Sergeant Blencowe. He seemed to bear him no ill-will for loosening two teeth in his lower jaw.

  “He will be mad,” he said. “Quite mad. That young brother of his, Stanislaus. He was ver’ fond of Stanny.”

  “No accounting for tastes,” said Sergeant Blencowe. “I thought he was a nasty little sod.”

  Dimitri considered the matter and nodded his head in agreement. “He is a nasty little sod, yes. But not as nasty as Augie.”

  It was at the third of these discussions that the proposition finally took shape. Blencowe reported it to Petrella.

  “If we could guarantee to get him out of the country, he’d stand up in court and give us the works. Enough to put Augie and Stanislaus and two or three of the worst of his friends away for a long time. It’s a lovely set-up they’ve got down there in Little Baltic. It’s not just money from honest citizens like Milton. That’s almost a side-line. They collect a regular levy in cash and kind from their compatriots who work down there. Skin money, they call it.”

  “Skin money?”

  “That’s right. You’ve got a choice. Which would you rather part with? Your money or your skin? Remember that body we pulled out of the river a month ago. There wasn’t enough of him left to identify him. Dimitri says it was a new arrival from Lithuania who refused to pay up. They flayed him alive before they put him in the river.”

  Petrella took a deep breath and said, “It’s time we finished them.”

  He was in his office late that same afternoon, writing an urgent recommendation to Division to this effect, when his telephone rang. He had two lines. One went through the Station exchange, the second was a direct line. The number was known to a few very private informers who wanted to talk off the record.

  “Detective Chief Inspector Petrella?”

  “Yes.”

  It was a thick, gravelly voice. The laboured enunciation, with equal stress on each syllable, suggested a foreigner who had learned most of his English out of books.

  “I have a suggestion to make to you, Inspector. Tomorrow morning, Stanislaus Volk and Dimitri Ossupov will appear before the Magistrate for a further remand. They will be transported in a police tender. There will be a driver and a policeman in front. There will be only one man in the back. This will be thought sufficient, since they will be handcuffed.”

  “Any other arrangements you’d care to suggest?”

  “The man in the back will be you. Stanislaus will succeed in slipping off his handcuffs. They will have been inefficiently fastened. At a moment when the vehicle is halted by the traffic he will hit you, hard enough to put you off balance and will make his escape. He will be out of the country by that evening.”

  “Haven’t you forgotten Dimitri?”

  “Dimitri you may keep. I have no further use for him.”

  “That’s very generous of you. But if you don’t mind, I think we’ll keep both of them. The general opinion is that Stanislaus will get ten to fourteen years. He shouldn’t have touched that girl.”

  The voice at the other end said, in the same deliberate tone, with the words well spaced out, “I think you would be well advised to consult your wife before you finally make up your mind.”

  Petrella was aware that someone else had come into the room. He sat, gripping the telephone and staring at it. The voice said, “You understand what I am saying?”

  “Where does my wife come into it?”

  “She does not come into it. But she might advise you to co-operate. We have taken charge of your son.”

  Petrella tried to say something, but no words came.

  “If you want him back with his skin on, you will follow out my instructions to the letter. Neither you, nor your wife, will say anything of this to anyone.”

  There was a click, as the receiver was replaced and a purring sound on the disconnected line.

  Petrella made three attempts to put the receiver back on the hook. He had some difficulty in unclenching his hand. Finally he left the receiver lying on the desk, got to his feet, stared at Sergeant Roughead who was standing beside the desk and left the room without saying a word. Milo heard him running down the passage.

  Milo replaced the receiver, took it off again and dialled. A voice said, “Father Amberline here.”

  “It’s me, Father. Milo.”

  “What can I do for you, my boy?”

  “Patrick’s new flat is just round the corner from your Vicarage isn’t it? Could you get round there quickly. There’s been some trouble. I think they’re going to need help. Don’t say I told you. But hurry.”

  “I was planning to call on Mrs. Petrella anyway,” said the Reverend Amberline. “I’ll go over right away.”

  It took Petrella fifteen minutes of panic and frustration to reach home. First he discovered that both police cars were out on duty. Then he wasted further minutes looking for a taxi. Then he started running.

/>   When he arrived breathless, the front door of his flat was open and he could hear voices from the sitting-room. One was the comfortable base of Father Patrick Amberline. The other he scarcely recognised as that of his wife. She was lying back in a chair and there was a long livid bruise down the side of her face. When she saw Patrick she tried to get up, but the priest put a hand on her shoulder. He said, “Concussion. Nothing worse, I think. I’ve sent for the doctor. She oughtn’t to move about too much until he’s seen her.”

  She said, “They took Donald. They came in here and knocked me down and took him. I’d have killed them if I could, but I had nothing to do it with.”

  “We’ll have him back,” said Father Amberline. “Never fear. Just rest easy now.”

  “Yes,” said Petrella. “We’ll have him back.” He seemed to be thinking. “Would you look after things here, Father? There’s a lot to do.”

  “Surely, surely.”

  There were a few signs of disorder. A table had been knocked over. The telephone had been torn out of the wall. In the corner was a building estate which Donald, an ambitious four-year-old architect, had been constructing when the men arrived.

  Petrella took a last look round the room. There was an expression on his face which Father Amberline, had he been a Spaniard himself, might have recognised. It was the cold composed look of a matador facing a dangerous bull.

  Outside it was beginning to get dark. Petrella found a taxi and dismissed it at the end of Archer Street. When Mrs. Sullivan saw who it was, she tried to slam the door. Petrella pushed it open, not rudely but quite firmly and went through into the kitchen.

  Mrs. Sullivan pattered after him. She said, “You’ve put away my son, Patrick. Is it me you’re after now, then?”

  Petrella ignored this. He sat down in a chair in front of the stove and said, “I want to talk to Michael and Liam.”

  There was something in his voice which Mrs. Sullivan evidently found hard to understand. It was not threatening. It was certainly not placatory. It was the flat voice of someone asking for something which was going to happen anyway.