Young Petrella by Michael Gilbert Read Free Book Online Page A

else. A John the Baptist in beard and rags, motionless at the end of the street.
    “Someone put the finger on us,” he said. “And I’m wondering just who.”
    “Must have been that flickering prophet,” said one of the others.
    “Could be,” said Len. “Might have been young Timmy.”
    They looked up to see if he was joking; his face was expressionless as a washed dish.
    “Why would it be Timmy?”
    “I didn’t say it was,” said Len. “I said it might be. He’s friends with that dick, ent he? I seen ’em talking the other day. He’s so young he doesn’t think what he’s saying, perhaps.”
    Timmy Harrington came in at this moment. He usually took the route across the roof and through the skylight, because he was still young enough to enjoy climbing for its own sake. This time he was in a hurry, so he came up through the trapdoor.
    “I did what you said,” he explained. “I watched the back door and slipped by when the old woman—”
    “Cut the narrative,” said Len. “Tell us what you found.”
    Timmy, deflated, said, “You know all that old clobber he wears, rags and pieces. Well, he’s got a nice suit in his wardrobe. And shirts and shoes and socks. And – and something else.”
    He held his right hand out and they crowded round him. It was the last, the ultimate argument. A small, old-fashioned, blue-plated pistol.
    “And it’s loaded,” said Timmy.
    “I’d better look after that,” said Len. No one demurred. He slipped it into his pocket. “What’s your idea about this geezer, Timmy?”
    “I think he’s a copper,” said Timmy. “You know – a ghost. Someone they’ve planted here. . .”
    There was an uneasy silence in the loft. It was exactly as if a shadow had stalked across the room.
    “What say we lie low for a bit, Len?” said one of the boys.
    “Nuts,” said Len. The weight in his pocket gave him confidence. “He’s no copper. He’s a cheap stoolie. When I’m finished with him he’ll wish he was back wherever it was he came from. First thing, we want to find out what he’s up to. Right? We take it in turns. One of us watch him all the time. Use your loaf. Keep out of sight. We’ll soon see what he’s at. Then we can fix him.”
    If the Prophet knew that he was being watched, he gave no sign of it. Most of his day he spent, as before, drifting quietly along the pavements of Pond End and Highside, going no further north than the Main Circular Road, sometimes dropping south as far as the railway terminals and goods depots of Sonning Town.
    But most of the time he spent with the children and they, with the instinct of the streets, seemed to realise that he meant them no harm. Hour after hour they would follow him, an early and unusual Father Christmas, carrying no sacks of toys, but big with infinite possibilities of mystery.
    “He talks to them,” said Petrella.
    “As long as he only talks,” said big Sergeant Gwilliam.
    “The matron of the Highside Children’s Home got a bit worried at first. He hangs round there a lot. But from what I can make out he does the children no harm.”
    “Loitering with intent?”
    Petrella considered the matter, but shook his head. Although, as a policeman, he had a well-founded distrust of any unknown character who hung about for long doing nothing, this didn’t make sense.
    “There’s nothing to steal,” he said. “The place is just full of kids and beds and bedpans.”
    “Different thing five years ago when it was a private house. Old Sir Louis Borderer. Then it would have been worth a go.”
    Petrella cast his mind back.
    “He was the collector wasn’t he? Died some years ago. A lot of his stuff went to a museum.”
    “That’s right,” said Sergeant Gwilliam. “It was before my time. I was in South London then. Why?”
    “Was there ever a burglary there? A big one?”
    “I expect so,” said Gwilliam. “There was plenty worth stealing. Records would be able to tell you. Why?”
    “Just an idea,” said