Free Young Petrella by Michael Gilbert Page B

said Petrella. “Did you ever see Farnes there?”
    “Old Mungo? Yes. Once or twice.”
    “And Lowson? And Turner?”
    “Lowson’s a regular. I dunno about Turner. I expect so. They all use it. What’s the idea? You thinking of organising a stag party?”
    “That’s just exactly what I am going to do,” said Petrella. “All the losers shall drown their losses in quarts of porter,” and he rang off.
    “Barmy,” said Peggs. None the less there was a glint in his small black eyes. He had just begun to realise what Petrella was talking about.
    That was Thursday. Two nights later, at about half past nine, the Saloon Bar of the Bull was full, as it usually was on Saturday night, of bright folk, bright lights, smoke and the steady pulling of beer engines and clanking of glasses.
    Holding the middle of the floor, gorgeous in a black suit which had first seen the light of day at his wife’s funeral, was Mr. Peggs. Facing him, and talking almost as loud, was Mungo Farnes. Behind his left elbow appeared the red face and porcelain smile of Solly Moss.
    “What I say is,” repeated Peggs, “if you keep your lolly in a safe, you’re asking for trouble. What is a safe?”
    He paused for breath, and let in Mungo, who told him what a safe was, in language which caused even the barmaid to open her doll-like eyes.
    “I’ll tell you what a safe is,” said Peggs. “It’s an advertisement. It says, in letters a yard high, ‘Come on, here’s where the money is.’ Right?”
    The company agreed that he was right.
    “It’s all right criticising,” said Solly. “Where d’you keep your stocking, Peggs, my boy?”
    “Ah,” said Peggs. “One or two people might like to know that. I’ll tell you one thing. I don’t keep it in the safe. And I don’t keep it in the shop. And I don’t keep it under my bed.”
    Petrella, from his post of vantage in the passageway behind the bar, thought that Peggs was doing it very nicely. Not too obvious. Just indiscreet enough to sound natural.
    He cast an eye round the bar. Many of them were regulars, and he acquitted them at a glance. Nor did he think the Nipper was a woman. In theory there was nothing to prevent a woman taking to burglary, but as yet it didn’t seem to be one of the fields in which they had started seeking equality with men.
    There was a youth with red hair and large hands, vaguely attached to a girl, whom he might have brought with him or might have picked up. There was an old man with a white beard, nursing a single half pint of mild in the corner. (Was he as old as he looked? The hand which raised the glass was very steady.) And a clerkly person, sipping a lager, whose eyes flashed round keenly behind a pair of rimless glasses. Nothing to choose between them really.
    “Did I do all right?” asked Peggs an hour later. He was mixing himself a powerful sedative.
    “Bang on,” said Petrella. “If the Nipper was there he’ll be after your life’s savings next.”
    “You think he’ll work it out?”
    “Bound to. Not in the shop, not in a safe, not in your bedroom. Really speaking that only leaves the living room.” He cast his eye round the homely apartment. “And it won’t be too difficult for him to get in. There’s a side door in Exeter Street. Easy lock. Then straight up the stairs. Then he’s got a choice. Could be this room, or the room opposite.”
    “That’s the bathroom. Wouldn’t keep money in the bathroom.”
    “Agreed. Now, whereabouts in this room? I’d say the sideboard was the obvious place. Strong doors. And a nice lock. That’s the place all right.”
    “All right,” said Peggs. “So that’s where I keep my money. Now what? I’m willing to help, but I’m not going to spend three weeks hiding behind a curtain waiting for a little perisher to come and help himself to it.”
    “Nor you shall,” said Petrella. “In fact, it’s quite obvious that he won’t come near the place until he’s seen you safely out of it.”
    “Are