Michael Gilbert
Return  of  the  Hero

"The mother of Sisera looked out of her window and cried,
'Why is his chariot so long in coming? Why tarry the wheels of
his chariot?' "
As Detective Inspector Patrick Petrella of Q Division said, "It
was pure Old Testament" . ..
Detective: INSPECTOR PATRICK PETRELLA
That morning, because his wife and small son were away at
the seaside, Detective Inspector Patrick Petrella cooked his
own breakfast. He should have been with them, but his stand-in
had broken his wrist in an argument with an Irish truck driver
and his second-in-command had mumps.
As he walked through the sun-baked streets, from his flat in
Passmore Gardens to the Divisional Substation on Patton Street,
there was an ache at the back of his neck and a buzzing in his
ears, and his tongue felt a size too large for his mouth. Any com-
petent doctor would have diagnosed strain from overwork and
packed him straight off on holiday.
The morning was taken up with a new outbreak of shoplifting.
In the middle of the afternoon the telex message was brought into
his room.
"Important. Repeated to all stations in Q Division and for in-
formation to other Divisions. Arthur Lamson's conviction was
quashed by the Court of Criminal Appeal at 3 o'clock this af-
ternoon."
Petrella was still trying to work through all the unpleasant
possibilities of this message when Superintendent Watterson ar-
rived.
He said, "I see you've had the news, Patrick. It was that ass
Downing who did it."
He referred, in this disrespectful manner, to Lord Justice Down-
ing, one of the more unpredictable of Her Majesty's Judges.
"I was afraid it might happen," said Petrella.
He spoke so flatly that Watterson looked at him and said, "You
ought to be on leave. Are you feeling all right?"
"It's the heat. A decent thunderstorm would clear the air."
"What we want," said Watterson, "isn't a decent thunderstorm.
It's a decent bench of judges. Not a crowd of nit-picking old wom-
en. 1. wonder if they've got the remotest idea of how much dam-
age a man like Lamson can do."
"There'11 be no holding him now," said Petrella.
Arthur Lamson was once described by the newspapers as the
unofficial mayor of Grendel Street. He ran a gymnasium and
sporting club there, was a big donor to all local charities, and had
a cheerful word and a pat on the head for any child, or a pinch on
the bottom for any pretty girl. He was also a criminal, who
specialized in protection rackets, employing the youths who hung
around his gymnasium to break up the premisesand occasion-
ally the personsof anyone who refused him payment.
Since he took no part in these acts of violence himself he had
been a difficult man to peg. Indeed, he might have continued un-
touched by the law for a very long time if he had not fallen out
with Bruno.
Bruno was a fair-haired boy, with a deceptively open face and a
smile that showed every one of the thirty-two teeth in his mouth.
He was a great favorite with the girls, and it Was over a girl that
the original trouble arose. There were other differences as well.
Bruno had an unexpected streak of obstinacy. When he was not
paid as much as he had been promised for a job he had done for
Art Lamson, he spoke his mind, and spoke it loudly and publicly.
Lamson had decided he must be disciplined. The disciplining
took place in a quiet back street behind the Goods Depot.
While Bruno was in the hospital, having half of his right ear
sewn back on, he came to certain conclusions. He told no one
what he proposed to do, not even Jackie, the girl he was secretly
engaged to. He went one evening to a quiet public house in the
Tooley Street area, and in a back room overlooking the river he
met two men who looked like sailors. To them he talked, and they
wrote down all that he said, and gave him certain instructions.
A 5"0nth later Bruno said to Jackie, "I don't think any of the
boys know you're my girl, so you ought to be all right, but you'd
better lie low for a bit. I'm going to have to clear out of London."
Jackie said, "What are you talking about, Bruno? What's going
to happen? What have you done?"
"What I've done," said Bruno, "is I've shopped Art Lamson. The
Regional boys are picking him up tonight. With what I've been
able to tell them, they reckon they've got him sewn up."
Jackie put both arms round Bruno's neck, her blue eyes full of
tears, and said, "Look after yourself, boy. If anything happened to
you I don't know what I should do."
Very early on the following morning two cars, with four men in
each of them, slid to a stop opposite Lamson's house. Two men
went round to the back, two men watched the front, and four men
let themselves into the house, using a key to unlock the front
door. Petrella was one of them. Grendel Street was in his manor
and it was his job to make the actual arrest, and to charge Lam-
son with the crime of conspiring with others to demand money
with menaces and to commit actual bodily harm.
The nature of the information received became evident at the
preliminary hearing in the Magistrate's Court. It was Bruno. And
it was noticed that never once, while he gave his evidence, did he
look at Lamson or Lamson at him.
This was in March.
The trial started at the Old Bailey in the first week of June.
Bruno was brought to the court, from a safe hideaway in Essex, in
a police van which had steel bars on its windows and bulletproof
glass.
On the second afternoon he gave his evidence to the Judge.
Under the skillful questioning of his own counsel he repeated,
even more clearly and comprehensively, the facts he had already
stated to the Magistrate. At four o'clock he had finished, and the
Judge said, "It will be convenient if we break now. We can begin
the cross-examination of this witness tomorrow morning."
Counsel bowed to the Judge, the Judge bowed back, the Court
emptied, and Bruno was taken down a flight of steps to the base-
ment where the van awaited him.
As he stepped out of the door, a marksman on the roof of a
neighboring building, using an Armalite rifle with a tetescopic
sight, shot him through the head.
"And that," said Watterson, "was that. The Jury had heard
Bruno's evidence, and they convicted Lamson. Of course, there
was an appeal. The defense pointed out that although plenty of
people had given evidence of being intimidated, the only witness
who actually identified Lamson as the head of the organization
was Bruno."
And Bruno had not been cross-examined.
"How can you accept his evidence," said Mr. Marston, Q.C., in
his eloquent address to the Court of Criminal Appeal, "when it
has not been tested, in the traditional way, by cross-examination?
Bear in mind, too, that the witness was himself a criminal. That
he had, by his own admission, taken part in more than one of the
offenses with which the accused is charged. The law is slow to ac-
cept the evidence of an accomplice, even when it has stood the
test of cross-examination"
And so, at three o'clock on that hot afternoon in August, Arthur
Lamson descended the stairs which lead from the dock in the
Court of Criminal Appeal and emerged, a free man.
A considerable reception awaited him. The committee of wel-
come consisted of a number of reporters, mainly from the sporting
papers, but a scattering from the national press as well; one or
two minor celebrities who didn't care where they went as long as
they got into the photograph; members of the Grendel Street
Sporting Club; and friends and hangers-on of both sexes.
The party started immediately in the bar of the Law Courts,
but this was too small to contain everyone who wanted to get in
on the act. A move was made to a small club behind Fleet Street
which was broad-minded about membership and seemed to ob-
serve its own licensing hours.
By six o'clock the party was larger than when it had started,
and much louder. Lamson had a six months' thirst to quench, and
he stood, at the center of the noisiest group, a schooner of whiskey
in his large right hand, the sweat running in rivulets down his
red face, a monarch who had been unjustly deposed and was now
returning in triumph to his kingdom.
"I got a great respect for the Laws of England," he announced.
"They don't put an innocent man in prison. Not like some coun-
tries I could name."
"That's right, Art," said the chorus.
"I'm not saying anything against the police. They've got their
job to do, like I've got mine. If they're prepared to let bygones be
bygones, I'm prepared to do the same."
This offer of a treaty of friendship to the police force was felt to
be in the best of taste, and a fresh round of drinks was ordered.
Back in Grendel Street extensive preparations had been made
for the return of the hero. Streamers had been placed in position,
from top-story windows, spanning the street, and banners had
been hung out with WELCOME HOME, ART embroidered on them in
letters of red cotton-wool. The two public housesThe Wheel-
wrights Arms at one end of the street and The Duke of Albany at
the other endwere both doing a roaring trade, and the band of
the Railway Recreational Club was starting on its favorite piece,
which was the William Tell Overture.
The organizer of these festivities was seated at her bedroom
window, in a chair, looking down on the street. This was old Mrs.
Lamson, Art's mother, the matriarch of Grendel Street. Ma Lam-
son was a character in her own right. She had married, outdrunk,
outtalked, and outlived three husbands, the third of whom was
Art's father. A stroke had paralyzed her legs, but not her tongue.
Confined to a wheel chair, and rendered even more impatient by
her confinement, her shrill voice still dominated the street.
"Fix the end of that streamer, you big git," she screeched. "It's
flapping like a lot of bloody washing on a line. That's better. My
God, if I wasn't here to keep an eye on things, you'd have the
whole bloody lot down in the bloody street. And Albert"this was
to a middle-aged man, one of her sons by her first marriage, him-
self a grandfather"clear those bloody fools back onto the pave-
ment."
She indicated the drinkers outside The Wheelwrights Arms who
were sketching an informal eightsome reel to the strains of Wil-
liam Tell. "We want Art to drive straight down the street when
he comes home, don't we? He can't do it if they've turned it into a
pally-de-dance, can he?"
By eight o'clock the original party had moved from the Fleet
Street club and re-established itself in the backroom of a public
house near Blackfriars Station. Its constituents had gradually
changed. The journalists had slid away, to write up their impres-
sions of the event for next morning's papers. The minor celebrities
had gone in search of the next happening to which they could at-
tach themselves. What remained was a hard core of serious drink-
ers, a few friends of Art's, but mostly friends of friends, or those
complete strangers who seem to have a knack of attaching them-
selves to any party which has reached a stage of euphoria.
One of the few men there who knew Art personally said, toward
nine o'clock, "You ought to be getting back sometime soon. Your
old lady'll be expecting you."
"That's right," said Art, "she will." He made no attempt to
move.
"She's got a sort of reception organized, I understand."
"She's a lovely person," said Art. "I'm lucky to have a mother
like that. Have you got a mother?"
The friend said that he had a mother, a lovely person, too.
Toward ten o'clock the black clouds which had been piling up
from the west had blotted out moon and stars and the air was
electric with the coming storm.
The party was showing signs of disintegrating. There were no
formal farewells. People drifted out and did not reappear. For
some time now Art had been conscious of the girl. To start with,
there had been quite a few girls in the party. This one had sat
quietly in the background drinking whatever was put into her
hand and minding her own business. Nobody knew exactly who
had brought her, but nobody minded because she was a good-
looking chick, with blue eyes, black hair, and lots up top. Not ob-
trusive, but enough to catch the eye.
Art found his thoughts centering on the girl. Drink was not the
only thing he had been deprived of for the past six months. When
she looked up at him and smiled, what had been vague stirrings
became clear desire.
How it happened he was not clear. At one moment he was put-
ting down an empty glass on the counter, at the next he was in
the back of a taxi with the girl.
He slid one arm around her waist. She said, "Don't start any-
thing here, love. The taxi driver'll sling us out. Wait till we get
there."
"Where are we going?"
The girl sounded surprised. "Back to my place, of course."
Art was happy to wait. He was three out of four parts drunk.
One thing was puzzling him. If this chick really had been knock-
ing back all the drinks that had been offered to her, she should
have been blind drunk, but she sounded sober. A bit tensed up, he
thought, but cool. Perhaps she had a very hard head. She cer-
tainly had a beautiful little body.
Her place was a surprise too. It was certainly not a tart's pad. It
was on the third floor of an old-fashioned house and had the look
of a working-girl's flat, small but neat. She sat him down on the
sofa, and said, "What about a bite of food, eh?"
This seemed to Art to be an excellent suggestion. He needed
something solid to absorb the alcohol he had poured into himself.
The girl gave him a drink from a bottle on the sideboard. She
said, "I won't be a minute," and disappeared into the small room
which was evidently the kitchen.
Art sipped his drink and lay back on the sofa. He had had so
much luck lately that this little extra bit seemed a natural bonus.
The only trouble was that he was feeling bloody sleepy. It really
would be a bad joke if, with this gorgeous chick offering herself to
him, he couldn't stay awake to do anything about it.
He laughed and the laugh turned into a strangled snore.
Five minutes later the girl reappeared. She picked up the glass,
which had rolled onto the floor, and stared down at Art, full
length on the sofa, his face red and sweating, his mouth wide-
open. There was no expression in her blue eyes at all.
First she moved over and shot the bolt on the door. Then she
went to a closet in the corner of the room. It seemed to have
household stuff in it. She selected what she needed, and came
back.
When the storm broke, Petrella was sitting in the charge room
at Patton Street talking to Superintendent Watterson.
"This should  cool  their  heads,"  said the  Superintendent.
"They've been jazzing it up since opening time."
"Has the great man put in an appearance yet?"
He was answered by the telephone. It was Ma Lamson. Her
voice had in it anger, vexation, and an edge of fear. Petrella found
it difficult to make out what she was saying.
He said, "Hold on a minute," and to Watterson, "She says Art
hasn't turned up, and she's worried something may have hap-
pened to him. I can't really make out what she wants. I'd better
go down and have a word with her."
"Watch it, Patrick. They all know it was you who pulled him in.
They'll still be hot about it."
"No one could stay hot in this weather," said Petrella. The rain
was now coming down solidly. He drove down to Grendel Street in
a police car, stopped it at the end, turned up the collar of his rain-
coat, and went forward on foot.
The street was empty, its gutters running with water. Overhead
the banners of welcome flapped, damp and forlorn. The band had
cased its instruments and hurried home.
Only Ma Lamson kept vigil at her upstairs window. The rain,
blowing in, had soaked her white hair which hung, in dank ropes,
on both sides of her pink face.
"Where is he?" she screeched. "Where's my boy? Art wouldn't
let us down. Something's happened to him, I know. 'E'd got
enemies, Inspector. They'll have been laying for him. You've got
to do something!"
Petrella stood in the pelting rain and looked up at the old wom-
an. The release of the storm had cleared his head. It had done
more. It had made him almost light-headed. He felt an almost
hysterical urge to laugh.
Restraining it, he promised that a general alert should be sent
out, and made his way back to Patton Street.
He said dreamily to Watterson, "It was pure Old Testament."
"What are you talking about?"
The Superintendent knew that Petrella had a reputation for ec-
centricity. He had once quoted poetry at a meeting of the top
brass at Scotland Yard, and had got away with it because it was
Robbie Burns, who happened to be the Assistant Commissioner's
favorite poet.
"The mother of Sisera looked out of her window and cried, 'Why
is his chariot so long in coming? Why tarry the wheels of his
chariot?' "
"Who the hell was Sisera?"
"He was a king in Canaan. When he was on his way back to a
triumphant welcome, organized by his mother, he was lured into
the tent of a young lady called Jael."
"And what did she do?"
"He asked for water, and she gave him milk. She brought forth
butter, in a lordly dish."
"I see," said Watterson doubtfully. "And what happened then?"
"Then she took a mallet in one hand and a tent peg in the
other, and she smote him. At her feet he bowed, he fell. Where he
fell, there he lay down, dead."
"What you need is a holiday," said Watterson firmly. "You're
going on leave first thing tomorrow, if I have to stand in for you
myself."
Five days later, when the police, alerted by worried neighbors,
broke into the third-floor flat of Bruno's girl, Jackie, they found
Art Lamson.
Jackie had driven a six-inch nail clean through the middle of
his forehead, and had then cut her own throat. But Petrella knew
nothing of this. He was helping his small son to construct a sand
fort and adorn its battlements with shells from the sea.