Blood and Judgement (7 page)

“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.”

“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.”

“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
P
38,” 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
P
38 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; perhaps 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.

“Other what?”

“Print,” said Cobbold, looking surprised. “Didn’t you know we found a set of prints in here? Very nice ones too.”

He walked across to the window. “On the upright. The middle one, sort of embedded in the paintwork. That’s why they’re still there, I guess.”

He directed the light of the torch that he held on to the spot and they saw, almost startling clear, the marks of four fingertips.

“What happened,” said Cobbold happily, “is someone must have come in this window from the outside. That’s the way the fingertips are pointing, see. The window’s open, and he pulls on this upright to get himself through. Perhaps the paint isn’t quite dry, or perhaps it’s a very hot day, and the paint’s a bit soft.”

“How long would a print like that last?” said Kellaway.

“Oh, quite a long time. Six months – maybe a year.”

“In that case, we’ll probably find it was the man who did the painting,” said Dodds.

“Don’t believe it,” said Kellaway. He was riding high on his luck. That day, he knew, every jackpot would drop, every outsider would come romping home. “Photograph these as well. Then we’ll send both lots down to Central and see if we can get a quick identification. If they’re the same man – why, then, we’re going places.”

An hour later Petrella was displaying the freshly dried positives to Sergeant Blinder.

“Envelope A,” he said, “photograph of a single print, taken from the magazine of a
P
38 automatic pistol.”

“Do you call that a photograph?” said Sergeant Blinder. “Who took it? Cobbold? You’d have thought, all the tips I’ve given him, he’d know how to highlight a photograph.”

“The gun it came off had been under water for more than a month. You can’t expect too much.”

“There’s nothing wrong with the print,” said Sergeant Blinder. “A very nice print indeed. It’s the photograph I’m complaining about. These boys will use overhead lighting. I’ve told them time and again that a lateral beam–”

“Here,” said Petrella hastily, “we have envelope B. A set of four fingerprints of the right hand found on the paintwork of a window jamb. We think it might be off the same man.”

“That I can tell you right away they’re not,” said Sergeant Blinder.

“How
can
you tell?”

“Different altogether.”

“I’ll take your word for it. If you can make us an identification – it really is rather urgent. Superintendent Kellaway–”

Sergeant Blinder sniffed.

“When did he want it?”

“Just as soon as possible.”

“Not yesterday? Or the day before yesterday?”

Petrella was in no mood for defending Superintendent Kellaway.

“No,” he said. “Just as quickly as you can, that’s all.”

He had a lot to do himself. After a quick lunch in the canteen he took himself out to Hounds Green for another word with Lundgren. This proved to be a frustrating afternoon. Lundgren was engaged, when he arrived, but his secretary thought that he would be free at any minute. Petrella sat in the waiting-room and read through
Some notes on Water Purification by the Heck-Mueller System of Disks and Meshes.
When he had finished this, and Lundgren had still failed to appear, he went out for a cup of tea. By the time he had got back, Lundgren had appeared, looked for him, and got himself tied up again with another caller. Petrella settled down to study the
Metropolitan Water Board. Annual Infall Statistics.
At five o’clock Lundgren finally came in full of apologies.

“I can find out when the cottage was painted last,” he said. “My impression is that it was certainly done when Ricketts went in, but there may have been minor maintenance jobs carried out since. As for getting the fingerprints of the painters who carried out the job – I shouldn’t think it’d be difficult to find them. Only they might object to having their fingerprints taken.”

“We’ll need yours too,” said Petrella. “You’ve been over the house. And your cleaner’s. If you give me the names, I’ll have someone sent out.”

“I’m trying hard not to be inquisitive,” said Lundgren, “but I take it – I take it this means you’ve found something.”

“Yes,” said Petrella. “But for goodness’ sake keep it under your hat.”

Lundgren followed his exposition with the keenest attention.

“If they’re not the same man,” he said, “the one who came in the window, and the one who fired the gun, then it looks as if perhaps Ricketts didn’t–”

“There are too many possibilities at the moment,” said Petrella. “Like in bridge. Whatever the experts pretend, you can’t really deduce what’s in all four hands just from the bidding alone. You’ve got to wait until a trick or two’s been played.”

“I’m very fond of bridge myself,” said Lundgren. “We must see if we can’t arrange a rubber when this unhappy business is settled–”

It was after six before Petrella got back to Crown Road, guiltily conscious that he had more or less wasted the afternoon. As soon as he got into the corridor he could tell that something had happened.

Dodds shot out of the CID room, caught sight of him, and said, “There you are, Patrick. Come on, quick!” and whisked him into Haxtell’s room.

The nominal owner of the room was sitting quietly in one corner, and Chief Superintendent Barstow was installed behind his desk. Kellaway was standing in front of the fire and a bulky man with crinkly grey hair, whom Petrella knew by sight as Chief Superintendent Burrell, father of the fingerprint section at Scotland Yard, was overflowing the only other chair.

“Now we
are
all here,” said Barstow, looking sourly at Petrella. “I’ll recapitulate. First we have evidence that this was a gang killing.” Kellaway nodded. “Second, we find a gun which is believed to belong to Howton. He’s got a record of violence and has been taken once with a gun on him.”

“Twice – unlawful possession of firearms – 1946 in Liverpool and 1951 in London.”

“Third, he was friendly with Rosa Ritchie. It’s reasonable to suppose that her husband getting out of jail precipitated some sort of crisis – and there’s evidence that the killing did in fact take place on the day after he got out.

“Fourth, and last, Howton has certainly been in that cottage sometime. It looks from the position of his fingerprints as if he climbed in at an open window.”

“He wouldn’t have any reason that we know of for being there legitimately.”

Chief Superintendent Barstow considered the matter. To the professionals gathered in the room the trend of his thoughts was as evident as if he had spoken them aloud. He was not an entirely likeable character, not a glad sufferer of fools, not beloved of his subordinates, but he had, as Petrella had observed, one admirable characteristic; he was capable of making up his mind, and he made it up quickly.

“Not good enough,” he said. “Very, very nearly, but not quite. If the print on the gun had been Howton’s–”

Petrella looked up quickly.

“–By the way, have you identified that print yet?”

“No, sir,” said Kellaway. “I expect we shall, but it’s a rather faint, single print, and that’s bound to take longer. Of course, it could turn out to be one of Howton’s boys.”

“If it turns out to be one of Howton’s boys, then he’s the one we ought to charge with the murder,” said Barstow reasonably. “No. The evidence so far is simply that Howton was in the cottage. His fingerprints on the window prove that. We don’t know
when
he was there. But it seems highly likely that it was on the night Mrs Ritchie got killed. However, that’s conjecture. What we want is positive evidence, either Howton was seen near the reservoir that night or, perhaps, something to tie him up to the shooting. What about motive?”

“As you said yourself, sir, there must have been some sort of crisis.” Kellaway tried to keep the irritation out of his voice. “Monk Ritchie had got out of prison the day before. He’d go straight to the boys. They’d hide him up for the first night. Next day they’d arrange for a meeting with Rosa. She was banker to the outfit. When we put Monk away, you remember, we got very little of the stuff. It now seems clear that Rosa had got it stowed away somewhere. I’d suggest that she and Howton had been quietly turning it into cash. And maybe quietly spending it on themselves.”

“If that was right, Monk would have shot Howton, not his wife.”

“I should have thought,” said Kellaway, managing to instil just enough deference into his voice, “that the only way to find out the truth was to pull in Howton. We’ll get evidence quick enough then. His friends’ll all talk, once he’s inside.”