It was the sort of memory which enabled him to recall telephone numbers, dates on documents and details of that sort, usually quite unimportant. And he was certain that he had seen the number plate UGC 368M somewhere recently. He concentrated for a moment on the problem. A newish dark blue four-door Austin saloon. He saw it, in his mind’s eye, parked outside a house. A house not far from his own. A house in Craven Road. A doctor’s house. That was right. The car belonged to Doctor Lovibond. The man who had made a mistake about his railway ticket.
It was a mild coincidence. The sort of thing that was always happening in real life. If Petrella had had more to do that morning he would have dismissed the matter from his mind entirely. In the end the action which he did take was to extract Mr. Raby’s letter from the bottom of his pending tray, and send for Sergeant Roughead. He said, “Go and see Blooms Antiques. It’s a respectable little shop, as far as I know, run by a man called Friar. Find out what this is all about.”
“Loosen him up a bit?”
“Certainly not,” said Petrella. “You’re not playing the wall game now. Just ask him where he got these medallion things from.”
When Milo had departed Petrella put on his hat and coat and walked down to have a look at Tunstal Passage. Something was worrying him.
Tunstal Passage runs sharply downhill from its junction with Jamaica Road, between the flanks of two large buildings. One was Merriam’s iron foundry. The other was a furniture repository. There were side doors to the yards of both these buildings, after that a length of blank wall, then a pair of wooden gates which blocked the end of the passage. On the gates, in faded white lettering, Petrella could make out, “Wharfside Properties Limited”.
He got one foot onto a bollard, hoisted himself up, and looked over. Immediately in front of him was a row of shacks, the biggest being a Nissen hut, the smallest no larger than a toolshed. None of them looked habitable or inhabited. Beyond them he could see an expanse of grey flecked with flashes of white where Father Thames ran by in full flood.
Petrella came down off his perch and walked slowly back up the passage. What he was trying to work out was which of his patients Doctor Lovibond could have been calling on at seven o’clock in the evening in Tunstal Passage.
“I thought it funny myself,” said Mr. Friar, “but I didn’t see anything illegal in it. This lady brought along six of them in a case. Said her great-uncle used to collect them. Heavy great things. Solid gold, no fooling. I’ve got the last one here.”
He unlocked his wall safe and brought out the medallion.
“Weighs just over five ounces. Six of them. Two pounds of gold. Worth something these days, eh?”
Sergeant Roughead examined the medallion curiously. On one side was a conventional representation of the head of Edward VII, Hanoverian nose jutting defiantly over rakish beard. On the other side the date 1901 and the words “ Pacis Amator”.
“I took one of them along to Francks,” said Mr. Frhr. “They looked it up for me in their catalogues. It’s genuine all right. See what it says on the back. Lover of Peace. That’s what they thought of him. My old father used to sing a song about that.” Mr. Friar threw back his head and croaked out, “There never was a King like Good King Edward: Peace with Honour was his motter: God Save the King.”
Milo was enchanted. He said, “Do you know any more verses?”
“There was one about mothers and babies. I don’t recall exactly how it went.”
Milo recollected that he was there on duty and said, as sternly as he could, “You realise you’re not supposed to deal in gold.”
“These are antiques.”
“Nothing’s antique until it’s a hundred years old. You’d better not sell this one until I’ve found out what the form is. I mean, until I’ve made a report.”
“I suppose,” said Petrella, “that one of
It was a mild coincidence. The sort of thing that was always happening in real life. If Petrella had had more to do that morning he would have dismissed the matter from his mind entirely. In the end the action which he did take was to extract Mr. Raby’s letter from the bottom of his pending tray, and send for Sergeant Roughead. He said, “Go and see Blooms Antiques. It’s a respectable little shop, as far as I know, run by a man called Friar. Find out what this is all about.”
“Loosen him up a bit?”
“Certainly not,” said Petrella. “You’re not playing the wall game now. Just ask him where he got these medallion things from.”
When Milo had departed Petrella put on his hat and coat and walked down to have a look at Tunstal Passage. Something was worrying him.
Tunstal Passage runs sharply downhill from its junction with Jamaica Road, between the flanks of two large buildings. One was Merriam’s iron foundry. The other was a furniture repository. There were side doors to the yards of both these buildings, after that a length of blank wall, then a pair of wooden gates which blocked the end of the passage. On the gates, in faded white lettering, Petrella could make out, “Wharfside Properties Limited”.
He got one foot onto a bollard, hoisted himself up, and looked over. Immediately in front of him was a row of shacks, the biggest being a Nissen hut, the smallest no larger than a toolshed. None of them looked habitable or inhabited. Beyond them he could see an expanse of grey flecked with flashes of white where Father Thames ran by in full flood.
Petrella came down off his perch and walked slowly back up the passage. What he was trying to work out was which of his patients Doctor Lovibond could have been calling on at seven o’clock in the evening in Tunstal Passage.
“I thought it funny myself,” said Mr. Friar, “but I didn’t see anything illegal in it. This lady brought along six of them in a case. Said her great-uncle used to collect them. Heavy great things. Solid gold, no fooling. I’ve got the last one here.”
He unlocked his wall safe and brought out the medallion.
“Weighs just over five ounces. Six of them. Two pounds of gold. Worth something these days, eh?”
Sergeant Roughead examined the medallion curiously. On one side was a conventional representation of the head of Edward VII, Hanoverian nose jutting defiantly over rakish beard. On the other side the date 1901 and the words “ Pacis Amator”.
“I took one of them along to Francks,” said Mr. Frhr. “They looked it up for me in their catalogues. It’s genuine all right. See what it says on the back. Lover of Peace. That’s what they thought of him. My old father used to sing a song about that.” Mr. Friar threw back his head and croaked out, “There never was a King like Good King Edward: Peace with Honour was his motter: God Save the King.”
Milo was enchanted. He said, “Do you know any more verses?”
“There was one about mothers and babies. I don’t recall exactly how it went.”
Milo recollected that he was there on duty and said, as sternly as he could, “You realise you’re not supposed to deal in gold.”
“These are antiques.”
“Nothing’s antique until it’s a hundred years old. You’d better not sell this one until I’ve found out what the form is. I mean, until I’ve made a report.”
“I suppose,” said Petrella, “that one of
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