I pulled out my I.D., which stated that I was an operative for the Elton Detective Agency. I specialize in running security checks on retail operations, identifying the weak spots and confirming those that are strong. But I’d never had a booster hand himself over to me before. This was going to be good for at least a couple of days off, with pay.
77
Who Has Seen the Wind?
Michael Gilbert
To Superintendent Haxtell, education was something you dodged at school and picked up afterward as you went along.
“All I need in my job,” he would say, “I learned in the street.”
And he would glare down at Detective Petrella, whom he had once found improving his mind with Dr. Bentley’s Dissertation on Fallacies at a time when he should have been thumbing his way through the current number of Hue & Cry.
Petrella was, of course, an unusual Detective Constable. He spoke three languages — one of them was Arabic, for he had been brought up in Egypt; he knew about subjects like viniculture and the theory of the five-lever lock; and he had an endlessly inquiring mind.
The Superintendent approved of that. “Curiosity,” he said. “Know your people. If you don’t know, ask questions. Find out. It’s better than book learning.”
Petrella accepted the rebuke in good part. There was a lot of truth in it. Most police work was knowledge — knowledge of an infinity of small everyday facts, unimportant by themselves, deadly when taken together.
Nevertheless, and in spite of the Superintendent, Petrella retained an obstinate conviction that there were other things as well, deeper things and finer things: colors, shapes, and sounds of absolute beauty, unconnected with the world of small people in small houses in gray streets. And while in one pocket of his old raincoat he might carry Moriarty’s Police Law, in the other would lie, dog-eared with use, the Golden Treasury of Palgrave.
“She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies,” said Petrella, and, “That car’s been there a long time. If it’s still there when I come back it might be worth looking into.”
He was on his way to Lavender Alley to see a man called Parkoff about a missing bicycle. It was as he was walking down Barnaby Passage that he forgot poetry and remembered he was a policeman.
For something was missing. Something as closely connected with Barnaby Passage as mild with bitter or bacon with eggs. The noise of the Harrington children at play.
There were six of them, and Barnaby Passage, which ran alongside their back garden, was their stamping ground. On the last occasion that Petrella had walked through it, a well-aimed potato had carried away his hat, and he had turned in time to see the elfin fact of Mickey Harrington disappear behind a row of dustbins. He had done nothing about it, first because it did not befit the dignity of a plainclothes detective to chase a small boy, and secondly because he would not have had the smallest chance of catching him.
Even when not making themselves felt, the Harrington family could always be heard. Were they at school? No, too late. In bed? Much too early. Away somewhere? The Harrington family rarely went away. And if by any chance they had moved, that was something he ought to know about, for they were part of his charge.
Six months ago he had helped to arrest Tim Harrington. It had taken three of them to do it. Tim had fought because he knew what was coming to him. It was third time unlucky and he was due for a full stretch.
Mrs. Harrington had shown only token resentment at this sudden removal of her husband for a certain nine and a possible twelve years. He was a man who took a belt to his children and a boot to his women. Not only when he was drunk, which would have been natural, if not forgivable, but with cold ferocity when sober.
Petrella paused at the corner where the blank walls of Barnaby Passage opened out into Barnaby Row. It was at that moment that a line of Rossetti came into his head. Who has seen the wind? he murmured to himself. Neither you nor 1.
A casement rattled up and an old woman pushed out her head. “Lookin’ for someone?”
“Er, good evening, Mrs. Minter,” said Petrella politely. “I wasn’t going to — that’s to say, I wondered what had happened to Mrs. Harrington. You can usually hear her family.”
“Noisy little beggars,” said Mrs. Minter. But she said it without feeling. Children and flies, hope and despair and dirt and love and death: she had seen them all from her little window.
“I wondered if they’d gone away.”
“They’re home,” said Mrs. Minter. “And Mrs. Harrington.” Her eyes were button-bright.
As Petrella turned away he heard the window slamming down and the click of the catch.
He climbed the steps. Signs of calamity were all about him: the brass dolphin knocker unpolished, the steps unwhited. A lace curtain twitched in the front window, and behind the curtain something stirred.
Petrella knocked. He had lifted the knocker a second time when it was snatched out of his hand by the sudden opening of the door, and Mrs. Harrington stood there.
She was still the ghost of the pretty girl Tim Harrington had married ten years before, but life and rough usage had sandpapered her down to something finer and smaller than nature had ever intended. Her fair hair was drawn tightly over her head and all her girl’s curves were turning into planes and angles.
Usually she managed a smile for Petrella, but today there was nothing behind her eyes but emptiness.
“Can I come in?” he asked.
“Well... yes, all right.”
She made no move. Only when Petrella actually stepped toward her did she half turn to let him past her, up the dark narrow hall.
“How are the children?” he asked — and saw for himself. The six Harrington children were all in the front room, and all silent. The oldest boy and girl were making a pretense of reading books, but the four younger ones were just sitting and staring.
“You’re very quiet,” he said. “Has the scissor man come along and cut all your tongues out?”
The oldest boy tried out a grin. It wasn’t a very convincing grin, but it lasted long enough for Petrella to see some freshly dried blood inside the lip.
I can smell tiger, he thought. The brute’s here all right. He must have made his break this afternoon. If it had been any earlier, the news would have reached the station before I left it.
“I’d like a word with you,” he said. “Perhaps you could ask the children to clear out for a moment.” He looked at the door which led, as he knew, into the kitchen.
“Not in there,” she said quickly. “Out into the hall.”
Now that he knew, it was obvious. The smallest boy had his eyes glued to the kitchen door in a sort of dumb horror.
They shuffled out into the hall. Petrella said softly, “I’m not sure you shouldn’t go too. There’s going to be trouble.”
She looked at him with sudden understanding. Then she said, in a loud rough voice, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. If you’ve got anything to say, say it and get out. I got my work to do.”
“All right,” said Petrella. “If you want to play it that way.”
He was moving as he spoke. The door to the kitchen was a fragile thing. He ran at it, at the last moment swinging his boot up so that the sole of his heavy shoe landed flat and hard, an inch below the handle.