Young Petrella

by Michael Gilbert

  They are not the sort of people who trouble the police except when their chimneys catch fire or they lose their dogs. Detective Constable Patrick Petrella was on his way to see a retired Colonel who had been using a real Smith and Wesson .445 revolver to shoot imaginary rats in his back garden and he was using Matrix Street as a short cut. Outside No. 15 he noticed Miss Flint’s large tortoiseshell cat, Tinker, sitting on the low wall beside Miss Flint’s porch. As he went past Tinker looked at him and lifted the side of his velvet mouth in the lightest of protests. Petrella said, “Good morning, Tinker,” but his mind was on the Colonel.

  Nearly an hour later he was on his way back. The Colonel had proved amenable to reason, and the right-hand pocket of Petrella’s raincoat was weighed down by a Smith and Wesson .445 revolver. Tinker was still sitting on the wall. As Petrella approached he jumped down, ran to the front door, and scratched it delicately.

  Petrella stopped.

  Now that he had time to consider the matter it occurred to him that No. 15 still wore an overnight appearance. The downstairs curtains were drawn. The end of a folded newspaper protruded from the letterbox. Petrella looked at his watch. It was eleven o’clock.

  It was, of course, possible that Miss Flint was away. But before going away she would surely have made proper arrangements for Tinker. In some households cats were left to fend for themselves when the family went on holiday. Not in Matrix Street. Petrella climbed the three white steps and pressed the bell. He heard it buzzing in the bowels of the house; and then, so faintly that it might have been the echo of an echo, he thought he heard a cry.

  He stood for a moment, and heard nothing but his own heart; then went down the steps, through the little green side door, which stood on the latch, and down the narrow side passage. Outside the back door was an untouched bottle of milk. He felt a pressure on his ankle. Tinker had followed him.

  The window which looked most hopeful was the smallest of the lot. Petrella, by a torpedo-like manoeuvre, and at the expense of a coat button, injected his thin body through the opening, and found himself in a larder. The door was held by a thumb-catch on the outside but yielded to treatment.

  In the tiny front hallway he stopped again and called out. This time, he heard the answer. It was a feeble hail, and it came from upstairs.

  He tried the two bedrooms, without success, noticing that neither had been slept in. Then the voice spoke again.

  “Stop pottering about, whoever you are,” it said. “I’m in the bathroom. The door isn’t locked.”

  Petrella opened the door and looked inside with caution. It was a long, narrow, coffin-shaped bath with high sides and Miss Flint was sitting in it. She had a towel wrapped round her shoulders.

  “This is no time for modesty, young man,” she said. “I’ve been here all night.”

  Petrella found another towel, wrapped this also round the old lady, picked her up bodily and carried her into the bedroom. She was surprisingly light. Here he tucked her up as best he could.

  “Shout and shout. People must be very deaf in this street. I thought no one would ever come.”

  “It was Tinker brought me in,” said Petrella.

  “Darling Tinker,” said Miss Flint. “As soon as I’m up and about he shall have a whole haddock for himself. If it hadn’t been for him, I might still be in that horrid bath – how I hate it – bawling my head off.”

  “How did it happen?”

  “I got in,” said Miss Flint. “I couldn’t get out. That’s all. Something’s wrong with my legs. I managed to pull the plug out, and all the water went away. And I got hold of a towel and the bath mat. Lucky it was a warm night.”

  “Yes,” said Petrella. A sudden thought of what it meant to old people to live quite alone came into his head. “You lie quiet. I’ll send the ambulance round.”

  “Ambulance?”

  “Certainly,” said Petrella. “Just lie still.”

  “But what about Tinker?”

  “I’ll look after Tinker. My landlady’s very fond of cats.”

  “It’s very good of you,” said the old lady, doubtfully. “I don’t even know your name. Who are you?”

  “As a matter of fact,” said Petrella, “I’m a policeman.”

  Two days later he called in at the hospital to tell Miss Flint that Tinker was settling down nicely in his new home. He had a word with the doctor before he went in.

  “She’s a marvellous old lady,” he said. “It would have killed some people a lot younger than her.”

  “Will she be all right?”

  “Certainly she’ll be all right. The delayed shock was the worst part of it. That and the very slight stroke which affected her legs. She’ll be up in another week. They don’t make ‘em like that nowadays. You go and have a gossip with her. She thinks very highly of you.”

  Petrella found Miss Flint in a reminiscent mood. She talked of her father, who had been a Colonel, and of her great-uncle, who had been a Canon Residentiary of Salisbury; and quite suddenly she stopped, and said, “You don’t think I’m mad do you?”

  “I’ve rarely met anyone saner in my life,” said Petrella, sincerely.

  “Then let me tell you something. I was helped.”

  “Helped?”

  “During that dreadful night. Quite late. I’d heard the church clock strike midnight and I knew I was there until morning. Perhaps for ever. For the first time, I really thought about that. Suppose no one came. Not for days, or even weeks. And I started to scratch at the side of the bath – what good I thought it could do – and I think I opened my mouth to scream, and I knew, for my father often talked to me about panic, that if I started to scream I should be finished, and at that moment I saw it.”

  “Yes,” said Petrella, in what he hoped was a soothing voice; but it is doubtful if Miss Flint heard him. She was back, in the night, fighting the Terror with only the shades of a long line of hard-living, hard-headed ancestors to help her.

  “It was the most beautiful thing. A face, bearded and strong, and lit up from behind by a glow of goodness and kindness. Every time I weakened, I saw it. I don’t know how many times. And in the end I went to sleep. Now do you think I’m mad?”

  “I’m not sure,” said Petrella, truthfully. “How good is your eyesight?”

  “As good as yours,” said Miss Flint, tartly. “I still use my own eyes and my own teeth.”

  “How far away did this – er – face seem to be? I mean – was it just outside the window – or further away?”

  “If it wasn’t inside my own head?”

  “If it wasn’t inside your own head,” agreed Petrella.

  Miss Flint considered, and then said, “You’re so rational. About a hundred yards. Do you believe me?”

  “I believe you saw it,” said Petrella. “The interesting question, to my mind, is whether anyone else, similarly placed, would do the same.”

  Miss Flint fumbled in the old black bag on her bed table.

  “Here’s the key,” she said. “Why don’t you go and have a look for yourself.”

  It was mad, of course.

  Petrella told himself so, quite firmly, more than once, during the course of the afternoon, and as the afternoon faded into the smoky grey of evening. A dream, a vision, a hallucination, born of strain and nurtured by shock.

  He told no one.

  At eleven o’clock, feeling curiously guilty, he let himself into No. 15 Matrix Street, climbed the stairs to the first floor and stopped to listen. The clock in the hall ticked loudly back at him.

  Using his torch discreetly, he moved an old wheelback chair from Miss Flint’s bedroom across to the bathroom, and padded it with two cushions. He had a long wait in front of him.

  He positioned the chair in front of the bathroom window and settled himself into it. After which he took from his pocket a small but powerful pair of night glasses, and placed them ready.

  The gardens of Matrix Street run sharply down to the railway, a branch line, little used at night. Beyond t
he railway, the ground rises again, to the backs of the big new shop and office blocks which have risen there since the war. These, in their turn, front on the High Street.

  Petrella dozed. Behind him, Matrix Street slept the deep sleep of clear consciences and small incomes. An occasional car passed the end of the street, dipped down – what was it called? – a funny little street of cellars and warehouses – which ran through the arch under the railway embankment, then rose again to join the High Street at the war memorial. He could trace the progress of each car quite clearly, the run down, in top gear, the slight booming noise as it passed under the arch, the gear change for the steep rise beyond, then a glimpse of the lights as the car slowed at the corner.

  What was the name of the street? Petrella was irritated. He prided himself that he knew his manor forwards and backwards.

  Piggott Street? Parrot Street? Perrin Street?

  Not street, hill.

  Pearson Hill – Pearlyman Hill – Purton Hill. That was it!

  At this point Petrella, who had had a long day, most of it on his feet in the open air, fell fast asleep.

  When he woke he found himself looking at a face. Bearded and strong and lit from behind by a glow of light. Even as he fumbled for his glasses, it faded.

  Petrella shook himself.

  “Now did I dream that?” he said. Outside the window everything was dark and quiet. There was a faint flicker of lights from the High Street as a car ran past the corner. He looked at his watch. A quarter to one. And getting cold. He moved across to the bedroom, pulled the patchwork quilt off the bed, and swathed it round him. There was no question now of going to sleep. He had rarely felt more wakeful.

  Ten minutes. A quarter of an hour.

  Another car – it sounded like a homing taxi – came slowly past the end of Matrix Street, hesitated, then dipped down Purton Hill.

  Suddenly the face was there again.

  Petrella snatched up his glasses, focused them, steadied them, saw nothing but blackness.

  When he lowered them the face was gone.

  Speed was going to be essential. If I knew when it was going to happen, he thought, I could be ready with the glasses actually up. Otherwise I don’t know how I’m going to catch it. On–off, on–off, like a blessed magic lantern.

  At three o’clock he suspended his vigil. The face had appeared no more. He got stiffly to his feet and went home to snatch a few hours’ sleep.

  The following day, after turning matters over in his mind, he telephoned Nicholas Freeman. It took him four shots to mark him to earth for Nicky was a bird of passage, a young man of a type now almost extinct, who did nothing and did it beautifully.

  “Will I do what?” said Nicky.

  “I don’t think I can explain over the telephone,” said Petrella. “Meet me at the Crown and Anchor, on Highside, in half an hour.”

  “Highside?”

  “It’ll broaden your mind,” said Petrella. “Jump to it.”

  Half an hour later they were sampling the excellent mild beer of the Crown and Anchor and Petrella was drawing a little sketch for Nicky.

  “You’d better have a girl with you. Can you manage that?”

  “Leave it to me,” said Nicky, stroking his small moustache.

  “Then you drive twice down this street. Once, at a normal pace. Don’t stop. The next time, go slowly, as if you were looking for somewhere to park. Stop at the bottom of the slope – spend about five minutes.”

  “You can leave that bit to me,” said Nicky. “What happens next? Is it Jack the Ripper? Does some character jump out of the shadows and cosh us?”

  “If I knew exactly what was going to happen,” said Petrella, “I wouldn’t be bothering you. Now be a good chap, and don’t ask questions.”

  At eleven o’clock that night he again let himself into Miss Flint’s house. The eight-day clock had run down, otherwise everything seemed much the same.

  At one minute to midnight he heard the unmistakable exhaust of Nicky’s car and gave that gilded young man full marks for punctuality. It turned the corner, passed the end of Matrix Street and headed for Purton Hill. Petrella had his glasses up to his eyes and practice enabled him to focus them on roughly the right spot.

  There was no doubt about it.

  A window, a pane of glass; a somewhat dusty pane of glass which reflected back the light of a torch and showed up the face of the man holding it. On, for a count of just three seconds. Then off.

  Petrella lowered the glasses and looked again at his watch. He had some time to wait for the more serious part of the performance.

  Punctually at half past twelve he heard the car once more. It was idling this time. Very slowly it approached the top of Purton Hill. Then it changed gear, rolled down, and stopped.

  “That’s shaken him,” said Petrella with satisfaction. This time the torch in the window was performing a fandango of dots and dashes. “They don’t like that. I only hope they don’t assault Nicky.”

  All was now dark and quiet. Four minutes later Petrella breathed a sigh of relief as he heard the car start, and glimpsed its lights as it swept away. He put back his glasses, and went downstairs, and home to bed.

  “It was a swindle,” said Nicky, indignantly, the next morning. “Nothing happened. Except to the girl.”

  “On the contrary,” said Petrella. “It went excellently. You were an important part of an experiment. A most successful experiment.”

  “What d’you mean? Nothing happened at all. And I’d promised the girl there’d be some excitement.”

  “What sort of excitement?”

  “Don’t be coarse,” said Nicky. “I thought someone was supposed to jump out and cosh us. I had a loaded revolver ready under the dashboard, but I never had a chance of using it.”

  “Thank goodness for small mercies,” said Petrella.

  Later that morning he paid an unostentatious visit to the office block in whose window he had seen the torch. It fronted the High Street, and was an ambitious building, with a reception hall, a glass-fronted board of tenants’ names, and, more unusual in that part of London, a commissionaire.

  He knew Petrella, and invited him into his sanctum.

  “No trouble, I hope.”

  “Not for you,” said Petrella. “Just some information. Which offices would it be that possess a window on the third floor, six from the left-hand corner as you look at it from the back?”

  The commissionaire consulted the letting plan and did some calculations on his fingers. “That’s Solly Moss, the turf accountant. No. As you were. Six from the left. That’s a new crowd. Novelty Projects.”

  “What do they do?”

  The commissionaire scratched his head. “I don’t rightly know,” he admitted. “They took two rooms – let me see – three weeks ago. But they haven’t started up yet.”

  “But they’ve got the keys.”

  Yes. They had the keys. And a key of the front door. That was the right of all tenants, since the commissionaire went off duty at six. The last man out locked up. They’d never had any trouble yet. Had someone been complaining?

  “No one’s complained yet,” said Petrella. He discovered that the commissionaire had never actually seen any of the members of Novelty Projects and jotted down the name and address of the letting agents.

  Midday found him strolling down Purton Hill. It was a curious little street. First came the blind side of the corner house of Matrix Street, then a high blank wall, which no doubt marked the garden of this property. Thereafter the road curved slightly, before running down to the railway arch, and at this point there was a building, fronting on the road and backing on the railway. It had the look of a disused warehouse. A stubby crane projected at first-floor level, and three low, arched openings, heavily barred, at pavement level suggested the presence of a considerable cellar.

  Instinct told Petrella that he had found what he was looking for, and it also warned him not to stop. He walked past without a further glance. It could have
been an indiscretion to walk down Purton Hill at all. He only hoped it had not been a fatal one.

  His next call was on Messrs. Ryan & Gosport who managed most of the worthwhile property in Highside. Old Mr. Ryan greeted him with an enthusiasm which suggested a guilty conscience, but which was actually nothing but good nature.

  “The warehouse in Purton Hill,” he said. “Now that is odd. It really is odd. Fancy you mentioning that. A month ago you could have had it for the asking. A white elephant. No market for it. Now I’ve let it.”

  “Not by any chance,” said Petrella, “to a firm called Novelty Projects?”

  “That’s them. Nothing wrong with them I hope?”

  “Nothing that I can prove,” said Petrella, cautiously. “Who actually did the negotiations?”

  “A most respectable-looking man. With a beard. I’ve got his name somewhere here. Henniker.”

  Petrella made a note of the name and the address, but without much hope. It had the look of an accommodation address. As he turned to go he said, “What was so special about these premises? Why were they so difficult to get rid of?”

  “They were put up fifty years ago,” said Mr. Ryan, sadly, “by a wine firm. Lovely cellars. Just the thing for storing wine. Then the railway came. Too much vibration. Spoilt the wine. No one else wanted them.”

  “And those are the cellars you look into, at pavement level? I see. Yes. Thank you very much.”

  He spent a busy afternoon in the Criminal Records Office, and then sought out his ally, Sergeant Gwilliam, who had a shrewd Welsh head on top of his vast bulk.

  He told him all he knew, from beginning to end, including the rescue of Miss Flint, at which the Sergeant laughed immoderately, but when Petrella had finished he scratched his head and said, “It certainly sounds like something, but what?”

  Petrella said, “The CRO are inclined to think that my friend with the beard, Mr. Henniker, may be none other than ‘Artful’ Andrews. He’s out of nick just now. And he works with a little mob.”