Blood and Judgement

by Michael Gilbert

  “I’ll open the shutters.”

  They gazed round the living-room. The carpet had been rolled up and the floor scrubbed. An imitation-leather sofa and two armchairs were stacked together in front of the unprotected grate. Petrella ran a finger along the top of the nearest chair, producing a faint powdering of greeny white mould. Lundgren was right. The place was damp.

  “We had it cleaned right out. I expect we shall redecorate before the next man comes in.”

  “Yes,” said Petrella. “What I’d like to do is have a word with the man who saw it first. Did he get the impression that Ricketts had taken his time about going? Had he packed all his things up carefully? That’d take time, you see. Or did he just cram what he wanted into a suitcase and push off?”

  “I’m not sure,” said Lundgren. “There was something in the report – I’ve got it at the office. I’ll look at it when I get back. No, I remember. It was the washing. The laundry had delivered a week’s washing. It was still in the porch when our man came round.”

  “There’s nothing in that,” said Petrella. “Anyone might forget their washing. Let’s look upstairs.”

  The bedroom was furnished simply with a bed, now stripped to its springs, a chest of drawers and cupboard. The chest and cupboard were empty and clean.

  “Some of the things left in here would certainly have been his,” said Lundgren. “The sheets and pillowcases, for instance. The blankets and bedding were supplied by us. That vase now – I’m not sure–”

  “Even if I’d had plenty of time,” said Petrella, “I think I might have managed to leave that behind.” The vase was pink, and embossed with tiny green oyster shells which formed the words “A present from Whitstable.”

  “Not absolutely my taste,” agreed Lundgren. “But some people like that sort of thing. Here’s the bathroom.” This, too, was bare, except for a cork bath mat and several dozen rusty razor blades, which had been overlooked on top of the medicine cupboard.

  “Well, he took his toothbrush,” said Lundgren.

  “And his towel. Let’s try the kitchen.”

  Here there was more to be seen. The room had been scrubbed and tidied, but they found a cupboard full of tins and packets – corn flour, tea, sugar (turned by the damp into a granular lump), and other accessories of the kitchen. In the larder stood a plate with a remnant on it that defied immediate analysis. There was a crusted saucepan pushed away on a shelf over the gas stove, and beside it a dry kettle.

  “It’d be interesting, too, to know if he left any washing up behind him. That’d be a pointer to the time of day he left. Perhaps your man could tell us that? And by the way – I don’t think I ever asked you. What day did he go?”

  “Now, that I can tell you exactly,” said Lundgren. “I found the copy of his telegram on my desk when I got to my office that Monday. It had been sent off two days before, on Saturday night.”

  Petrella swallowed hard.

  “Saturday?”

  “That’s right. Saturday, September 22nd. I was due to start my holiday on the following Friday – that’s how I know.”

  The world, which had been rotating comfortably on its axis, stood still; then started again with a lurch. Petrella said softly, “What a fool! What a fool! What a brainless, clueless fool!”

  Lundgren gaped at him.

  “Myself, I mean. Fool not to ask such an obvious question right at the start.”

  “Is the date important?”

  “Certainly it’s important. In fact, right now it’s the most important thing in the case. We’ve got to get hold of Ricketts, and get hold of him quick. Do you know where he is?”

  “Well,” said Mr Lundgren. “No. Really, I’m afraid I don’t. We never made any real effort to trace him. We were sorry he left us, but he wasn’t a criminal or anything. Why is it suddenly so important to know where he is?”

  From outside, on the reservoir, there came a shout. One of the men in the boat was on his feet and calling to the bank. Then the excitement seemed to subside. The man sat down again.

  In this space of time, Petrella had come to an important conclusion. He wanted Lundgren’s help. And he would only get it at the cost of telling him the truth or a good deal of it. And this he did.

  When he had finished, Lundgren said, “I must say, it sounds pretty conclusive to me. The woman was Rosa Ritchie, you say?”

  “Almost certainly, yes. The dental check should be conclusive. But I think we might assume it.”

  “And she was killed on Saturday, September 22nd. Most probably in the afternoon or evening, wouldn’t you think? The other men go off duty at one o’clock on a Saturday. Except for Ricketts.”

  “Exactly,” said Petrella. “Except for Ricketts. And your evidence shows that he cleared out that same evening. Do you happen to remember exactly what time his telegram to you was sent off?”

  “I don’t remember,” said Lundgren. “But I’ve got the confirmation copy in my files. Would you like to see it? I can run you back to my office in the car.”

  “Grand. I’ll have to telephone my superintendent. We’ll arrange to have the place gone over thoroughly. And I’ll need help for that. Not that we’re likely to find much now.”

  “You don’t think, do you,” said Lundgren, as they got into the car, “that Ricketts–”

  “Shot Mrs Ritchie?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s not impossible. It doesn’t quite fit in with one or two other things. I think this is the sort of case where it’s a mistake to jump to conclusions.”

  He caught Kellaway at his desk and told him what had happened. After he had finished speaking, there was a very slight pause. It was as if the superintendent was trying to fit the news into an existing pattern of notions, and the rough edges would not quite match. Then he said, “Yes, of course. That’s a vital piece of news. I’ll have a team sent down right away to go over that cottage with a tooth-comb. Keep on at the Ricketts angle and let me know what happens.”

  In Lundgren’s office, a little research produced the telegram.

  “That’s our private stamp,” said Lundgren. “It shows that it was dealt with here on the morning of September 24th. Otherwise it’s exactly as it was received. Dispatched from Leicester Square Head Post Office, you see, at 9:45 p.m.”

  The telegram was addressed “Metropolitan Water Board North West Area” and said, “Am leaving job and cottage tonight going Blackpool Regret inconvenience Writing Ricketts.”

  “Terse, and to the point,” said Petrella.

  “It was a considerable shock,” said Lundgren. “When a man pulls out suddenly like that, you can’t help wondering if everything’s in order in his department. Not that Ricketts handled any of our money.”

  “Everything at the cottage was in order. And his gear?”

  “Unless he was responsible for the boat, there weren’t any deficiencies at all. As a matter of fact, we were in pocket by two weeks’ pay. For some reason he hadn’t drawn that Friday or the Friday before.”

  “Sounds like a capitalist.”

  “It’s odd you should say that,” said Lundgren. “He didn’t make any sort of show, but I had the impression that he wasn’t broke by any means, I can’t remember why I thought it. Maybe because he always dressed well off duty.”

  “I take it he didn’t write from Blackpool.”

  “Not a word.”

  Petrella said, “I seem to remember you telling me that you were in the army with Ricketts.”

  “That’s right. He was in my battery during the war. We used him in the Battery Office, for clerical duties. He was as fit as a fiddle, but a bit over age for work on the guns.”

  “Tell me all that you can remember about him.”

  Lundgren considered.

  “I remember him best,” he said, “in the very first months of the war. We were all new to our jobs and feeling our way as we went. That was when the old soldier came into his own. Ricketts was just that – an old soldier par excellence.”

&
nbsp; “A regular?”

  “No. I don’t think so. I mean that he’d seen service in the First World War, and active service at that. He wore the ribbon of the MM. I believe he lied about his age to get to the front.”

  Petrella made a calculation. “If he was seventeen or thereabouts in the last year of the war, he’d be in his late fifties now.”

  “That’s about right. He was in his early forties when this war started. An active, vigorous, handsome man. Hair going a bit grey, but that somehow gave him an extra touch of dependability. And he certainly knew how to get things done. He was an extra right hand to an inexperienced subaltern like me. You know the sort of man.”

  “Yes,” said Petrella. “You’ve described him very well. The only thing is – don’t take this the wrong way – he seems a bit too good for the job he landed up in.”

  “I had just the same thought myself,” said Lundgren. “You know what a difference uniform makes to a man. I’d got used to seeing him slopping round in battledress. When he called on me here, in answer to our advertisement, my first reaction was surprise that he should have been applying for the job at all. He was neatly dressed. His hair a bit greyer and he’d taken to glasses, and altogether he looked just the sort of person who comes up to town on the 8:30 in a first-class carriage, as likely as not. I assumed he was hard up, and left it at that.”

  “Did he say anything about it? Why he wanted the job – and so on–?”

  “Not a word. I gather one of the attractions was the cottage. He said he liked privacy.”

  “And that was – how long ago?”

  “Two years, almost to the day. He started work in early September. And I patted myself on the back that the Board had made a good bargain.”

  “No complaints?”

  “None at all. It wasn’t very exacting work. But he did it excellently.”

  Petrella picked up the telegram and read it through again.

  “And you never took any steps to trace him?”

  “We had no reason to. As I said, his account was in credit – more than enough to pay for the cleaning of the cottage and make good any little deficiencies.”

  “And at the time you had no doubt that this telegram came from Ricketts.”

  Lundgren looked up quickly.

  “I haven’t any doubt about it now,” he said. “What are you getting at?”

  “Didn’t it strike you as odd that the telegram shouldn’t have been addressed to you personally? It must have been intended as a sort of farewell message. And it was you who got him the job. If there was anyone he was letting down it was you.”

  “Yes–”

  “If he felt shy of addressing it to you by name – and he may have been – why not ‘Resident Supply Engineer’ with the proper address of your office? I suppose he knew it? Just to put ‘Metropolitan Water Board, North West Area’ – isn’t that a bit risky? It might have landed up in anyone’s in-tray.”

  “It never occurred to me,” said Lundgren slowly. “In fact, you see, this is the headquarters of the North West Area, and I’m in charge, so it naturally came to me. What’s your idea about it?”

  “I couldn’t help noticing that there’s a board up outside the reservoir with exactly those words on it. ‘Metropolitan Water Board. North West Area.’ It occurred to me that if someone who didn’t know much about your set-up wanted to send a telegram as if it came from Ricketts, that’s just how he’d address it.”

  There was a long silence while Lundgren stared at Petrella.

  Then he said, “If that’s right, where’s Ricketts?”

  The telephone on the desk saved Petrella the difficulty of answering. Lundgren picked it up and said, “Yes?” and listened for a moment. “Yes, he’s here with me now. Hold on,” and to Petrella, “It’s for you.”

  “It can’t be,” said Petrella. “No one knows I’m here. Hullo.”

  “We’ve been looking for you,” said the voice of Sergeant Dodds. “You’re to come back to the reservoir, as quick as possible.”

  “What’s happening? How did you know where I was?”

  “The Dodds bush telegraph system. I can’t tell you anything more on this line. But we’ve found something.”

  7

  Kellaway Puts On His Best Hat

  “There she is,” said Sergeant Dodds. “Wotter beauty.” A clean sheet of lining paper had been spread on the living-room table, and in the middle of the paper lay a pistol.

  “Considering it’s been under water all that time, it’s not in bad shape at all, would you say?”

  It was an automatic, of about the same size as a .45, its working parts of dull metal, its handle of some black synthetic stuff. It had, as Sergeant Dodds said, stood up well to its immersion.

  “I’d guess it had been pretty well greased up, too,” said Dodds. “Packed away in grease probably.”

  “What sort is it? I’ve never seen one like it.”

  “You’ve never seen one like it! That’s because you’re young and innocent. You’d have seen plenty of them the other side of the Channel in 1945. It’s a German Army pistol.”

  “I thought all Germans carried Lugers.”

  “Only in films. This is the regular issue job. It’s a good gun, too. I’ve used one myself. Reliable up to twenty-five yards, and anyone trying to shoot someone more than twenty-five yards away with a pistol wants their head examined. Who’s this?”

  There came the sound of a car door slamming and Dodds jumped across to the window.

  “It’s Chris. And I bet he’s pleased with life. Talk about a hunch.”

  It was Superintendent Kellaway. He bounced into the room like the favorite coming into the ring under the bright arc lights. He was followed, more slowly, by a fat person, with a head of black curly hair and the tight smile of a man who knows what he is talking about.

  “I got hold of Charlie Fenwick as soon as I heard your news,” said Kellaway, “and brought him along. We’ll turn the gun over to him and he’ll tell us all about it.”

  The fat man picked up the gun carefully but firmly, like an experienced nurse handling a difficult baby.

  “A P38,” he said. “The normal army type. Too common to be much use for identification. You might get something out of the silencer though.” He pointed to the bulbous extension, so welded by time and rust to the barrel that it seemed to be part of it. “I don’t think the P38 was issued with a silencer. I’d say that one’s an old Mauser silencer, been adapted. Damn dangerous things, really. I’d never fire a gun myself with one of them on. A fraction out of alignment and the whole thing goes off in your face.”

  As he spoke his pudgy hands were exploring the weapon, pressing and twisting. Now he gave the whole gun a sharp smack and the magazine clattered out onto the table.

  “How long did you say this’d been in the water?”

  “If we’re right, six or seven weeks.”

  “Then someone took damned good care of it before it went in. Otherwise it’d be rusted solid by this time.”

  He picked up the magazine carefully, holding it by the edges with the tips of his thick but curiously delicate fingers.

  “How many have been fired?” asked Kellaway.

  “The maximum load’s nine. I can count six here in the clip. Which is in quite remarkably good order, by the way. No sign of rust at all. There’s probably one up the spout. It could have been fired twice or it could have been fired three times.”

  “Would a bullet out of one of these look like a .45 bullet?”

  “They’re both made of lead,” said Fenwick cryptically. He was still examining the magazine, holding it under the full light of the window. Now he rubbed his fingernail very gently across the surface, and said, “You can still feel the mineral jelly it was packed in. Wonderful stuff for waterproofing. Fifty times as good as grease. All the same, I don’t believe I’ve ever seen anything quite like that before. Not after such a long immersion. I can only suppose that the magazine was an exceptionally tight fit; perhap
s it belonged originally to another gun altogether.”

  “What are you getting at?” said Kellaway.

  “If it was an exceptionally tight fit, and well packed with grease to start with, you might get an airlock. See what I mean? No water would get inside the magazine sleeve at all. Not for a long time, anyway.”

  “So what?”

  “It’s not my department. Nothing to do with me at all. But wouldn’t you say that was a print?”

  They crowded round him.

  “Can’t see a thing,” said Kellaway.

  “Look. When I tilt her. Now.”

  “By God!” said Kellaway, and the invocation was so heartfelt that it sounded almost reverent. “You’re right. It is a sort of print. Right on the panel of the magazine.”

  “What saved it,” said Fenwick, “is that the moisture couldn’t get at it. Wonderful example of the working of Providence. Like the pearl in the oyster. Waiting there till Doomsday for the lucky fisherman.”

  But Kellaway was not listening. He had stalked away, into the middle of the room, and he stood there for a minute while he contemplated the moves which now had to be made. In the times that followed, Petrella sometimes found himself looking back to that moment. Making all allowances for luck, full credit had to be given to Kellaway. Laid on a stale scent, within twenty-four hours, he had turned up what looked very like the murder weapon, ready furnished with a print of the murderer.

  He turned to Dodds.

  “That search party I organized. What happened to them?”

  “They’re working upstairs. They finished down here.”

  “Who’s in charge?”

  “Sergeant Cobbold.”

  “Is he the camera man?”

  “That’s right,” said Dodds. “A real artist. He’s missed his vocation. He ought to be taking snaps on the front.”

  “Fetch him down. Let’s see if we can get a photograph of this print right away.”

  Sergeant Cobbold, when it was put to him, said, certainly. The electricity had been turned on. He could plug his lamp and reflector and photograph anything they wanted right away. Might as well do the other one at the same time.