Murder Somewhere in This City Page 10

Chloe’s sleeping pill did not prevent Gus Hawkins from awaking at his usual time on Sunday morning. He opened his eyes and became aware of the stiff breeze out of doors. The trees in his garden were waving to him.

  He yawned and stretched. “It looks like a cool wind,” he said, comfortably aware that he did not have to get up and go to the office.

  Chloe did not hear him. She had lain awake a long time listening for noises overhead, and now she slept heavily. It was Gus who heard a noise; a faint tinkling sound. He frowned. It occurred to him that the wind had loosened a tile on the roof.

  He got up and had a quick bath, and put on some old flannels and a sweater. He went downstairs and put the kettle on, and while he waited for it to boil he went outside and walked to the end of his back garden. He looked up. The roof tiles appeared to be in regular pattern; none displaced. He walked to the front gate. The tiles on that side too were quite in order.

  There was a very small skylight window in the roof. While he was looking up, he saw a brief flutter of movement behind the glass. He smiled. That was it. Another small bird had got in. Once he had found a dead starling in the attic. He never knew how it came to be there, but the poor thing had got in somehow and, unable to get out, it had starved to death. Well, a bird in the attic was better than a loose tile on the roof. He had only to go up and open the skylight, and it would fly out.

  He went back to the house and brewed the morning tea. He carried a cup upstairs for Chloe. She awoke when he entered the bedroom. She lay still, looking at him drowsily.

  “Cupper tea, love,” he said. Then: “I think there’s a starling in the attic.”

  She sat bolt upright, staring open-mouthed. Her face was sickly white. The cup rattled in the saucer as she mechanically accepted it, and some of the tea was spilled. “Wha-what?” she stammered.

  He grinned. “There’s another starling got into the attic. You’re not frightened of a bird, are you?”

  She achieved a weak smile. “Well, they flutter around, don’t they?”

  “I’ll go and let the poor thing out,” he said.

  “No, don’t bother just now,” she said quickly. “Come back to bed, darling.”

  He seemed slightly surprised. She guessed that she was not looking her best. She pouted, and stroked and patted his pillow, and wriggled impatiently.

  “She wants him to come back to bed right now,” she whispered.

  “You haven’t got the sleep out of your eyes,” he said, and went out onto the landing.

  “Gus! Come here!” she called, in a panic.

  “All right,” he said. “In a minute.” He was holding the cord and letting down the loft ladder.

  She sat listening, speechless with apprehension now.

  Gus climbed the steps. When his shoulders reached the level of the attic floor he received a hard blow on the head, from above and behind. He fell forward onto the steps, slithered down them, and lay crumpled at the foot.

  3

  Gus Hawkins was knocked on the head at about ten o’clock. The police were informed at half past, by his doctor. At two o’clock, four hours after the incident, Martineau was casually told about it by a C.I.D. clerk when he returned to Headquarters from the old quarry on the moors.

  “Hawkins?” he said, immediately interested. “What happened?”

  “His wife called the doctor and said he’d fallen down the attic steps. When the doc got there he found she hadn’t done a thing for Gus except try to pour brandy into him while he was still unconscious. I understand she’s one of the helpless type; a charming nincompoop.”

  Martineau nodded. “She’s a bad little bitch,” he said.

  The clerk, being a policeman, was neither surprised nor shocked. “Is zat so?” he said. “Well, the doctor lives just across the road from Gus, and, from upstairs, the doctor’s wife saw a man leave the house rather hurriedly while the doc was actually taking the phone call. She told the doctor, and he mentioned the man to Mrs. Hawkins. She said she never saw any man. She was in bed when the accident happened, she said.”

  “So the doctor thought Gus might have had a burglar, and he advised calling the police.”

  “Something like that, sir. But Mrs. Hawkins didn’t want the police. She said she didn’t think there’d been a man in the house.”

  “So?”

  “So the doctor called the police himself. Gus was still unconscious, and the doc couldn’t quite figure how a simple tumble had so well and truly laid him out.”

  “You mean, the doctor thinks somebody crowned him?”

  “He admitted that it was a possibility, sir.”

  “Who went on the job?”

  “Harmon and Cassidy.”

  “What did they get?”

  “Nothing but a lot of prints.”

  “Where are they now?”

  “Gone to have a bite of lunch, sir.”

  “What about Gus? Is the injury serious?”

  “I don’t know. They took him to the Infirmary.”

  “Poor old Gus,” said Martineau. “I think I’ll go and see how he is.”

  But at that moment Detective Constable Cassidy entered the office. “I want you,” said Martineau. “Give me the griff on this Hawkins job.”

  “There’s very little to give, sir,” said Cassidy, with sorrow in his Irish voice. “We’ve made neither head nor tail of it. There’s nothing been stolen, that we know of. But somebody was in the attic, or has been there lately. For what reason, it’s hard to say.”

  “Happen he just ran up there to avoid Gus?”

  “No, sir,” said Cassidy. “You haven’t got the picture.” He explained how the loft ladder worked.

  “I see,” said Martineau thoughtfully. “What did you think of Mrs. Hawkins? What did she tell you?”

  “Ah, she was very jittery, sir. Didn’t seem to know what she was saying half the time. She said she ran out onto the landing as soon as she heard Mr. Hawkins fall, but she neither saw nor heard anybody else. I asked her if he had any reason for going up the steps and she said he’d heard a noise, but she’d already told the doctor she didn’t know why he went up.”

  “Not quite truthful, you think?”

  “I wouldn’t like to give me expert opinion on that, sir. She was a mite confused, maybe.”

  “She was confused, all right, hut not the way you think,” said Martineau. “I’ll go and hear what Gus has to say, if he’s conscious.”

  He took Devery with him to the hospital, and as they entered by the main doorway they passed a young woman who was going out. She did not know them, or recognize them as policemen.

  “There, very much in the flesh, goes Mrs. Hawkins,” said Martineau when she had gone.

  “I thought you only knew her by reputation,” said Devery.

  “I don’t have opinions about people I know by reputation,” was the crisp reply. “I know her by sight. I’ve seen her around, before and after marriage. If she’s an honest wife, you can call me Morgan Unwin Gassbury.”

  At the inquiry desk Martineau introduced himself. A call was put through to a private ward. Yes, the police could see Mr. Hawkins.

  Gus had a sunny room to himself, and somebody had already provided flowers. His head was bandaged, but he was propped up by pillows.

  “Ten minutes. And don’t get him worried or excited,” said the ward sister.

  “What the devil do you want?” asked Gus.

  “We heard you were poorly, and thought we’d come and see you,” said Martineau, grinning.

  “I notice you didn’t bring me any grapes. I never saw a copper part with anything yet. Nobody ever comes off best with you fellows.”

  “Tut tut, he’s peevish. He must be getting better already.”

  “Give over,” said Gus. “You can’t kid me. What do you want?”

  “Did you see what hit you?”

  “No. Never saw a thing. It was like the house falling on me.”

  “Why were you going into the attic?”

  Gus told t
hem how he had gone outside to look at the roof. “I saw something move,” he went on, “and thought we’d got another starling trapped up there.”

  Martineau jumped. “A what?”

  “We once had a starling got into the attic. It couldn’t get out and it died.”

  Martineau glanced at Devery, and received a look of bright surmise. Then he heard Gus asking a question: “Now you tell me what hit me. My wife said the police hadn’t told her anything. Was it the trapdoor or something fell on me?”

  Martineau had been warned not to worry Gus. There was nothing more likely to do so than a suspicion that somebody had been hiding in the attic. “It was an accident of some sort, Gus,” he said. “It isn’t my inquiry, but I’ll get the details for you. Tell you what, I’ll send one of the officers concerned to talk to you.”

  “Yes, please do that,” said Gus, but he was watching closely.

  Martineau knew that he was a hard man to deceive. Probably he already had his suspicions. It was time to be going. “All right, Gus. I hope you’re soon better,” he said, and took his leave. Outside, he said to Devery: “Now we’ll go and see his missus. She’ll tell us more. I don’t mind worrying her at all.”

  Soon, unhampered by traffic, they were speeding across the city. They did not talk, until Martineau suddenly exclaimed: “Oh, confound it! I’m in the doghouse again! I forgot to phone and tell my wife I wouldn’t be home for dinner.”

  Sunday was the one working day when the inspector went home for the midday meal. Now that it was mentioned, Devery felt annoyed with himself. He also had forgotten, and he had intended to increase his reputation for reliability and helpfulness by reminding his superior.

  “It’s hardly your fault, sir,” he said. “You couldn’t know how things were going to develop.”

  “It’s too late now, anyway,” said Martineau. “I’m apt to forget the domestic side when I’m busy; especially when I hear of a starling with a capital S fluttering around. We’re supposed to be on the Cicely Wainwright job, but I’d take time out from hunting the devil himself if there was half a chance of picking up Don Starling.”

  “It’s an odd coincidence, if it was Starling in the attic.”

  “In the mention of his name, you mean? The other thing is no coincidence at all. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. Mrs. Hawkins was knocking about with a queer crowd when she met Gus. She used to go to the places where Don Starling spent his time.”

  “You think she knows him?”

  “Of course she knows him. I’ve seen her with him, before Gus started courting her. She’s a little strumpet and she’s probably been with him since she was married. He’ll have been in that house before, when Gus was out.”

  “It all ties in,” said Devery. “You could be right.”

  “We have means of making sure,” his senior replied. “Cassidy found plenty of dabs. But first we’ll hear what Mrs. Hawkins has to say.”

  They found Mrs. Hawkins alone. When she answered the doorbell, Martineau introduced himself unsmilingly. “And this is Constable Devery,” he said tersely. “May we come in?” When they were in the front room, he did not wait to be asked to sit down. “Who was the man in the attic?” he asked abruptly.

  She gulped. “I—man in attic?”

  “Yes. We think we know. We want you to tell us.”

  She stared at the carpet. “I never saw any man,” she said in a low voice.

  “May I use your phone?” he asked. She looked at him dully, and nodded. He went to the telephone in the hallway, leaving the room door open. He dialed CENtral 1212, and then, loudly enough for her to hear, he said: “Martineau here. Give me the C.I.D.”

  When the C.I.D. clerk answered, he said: “I want Cassidy, if he’s in,” and when Cassidy came on the line he asked: “What have you done with the fingerprints you found in Gus Hawkins’ attic?”

  “Sergeant Bird has them, sir. We—”

  “Listen. Get out Don Starling’s prints and compare, will you?”

  “Starling!” Cassidy echoed. “Well of all—I’ll do that at once, sir. Give me your number and I’ll ring you back.” Martineau gave the number, and went back to observe Chloe Hawkins’ consternation.

  “It’s a very serious offense to harbor an escaped convict, Mrs. Hawkins,” he said.

  She did not look at him. He could see that she was trembling, and he advised her to sit down.

  “Of course,” he went on, suddenly gentle, “if you had been intimidated or blackmailed, and you told us the whole story, it would put a different complexion upon the matter.”

  She remained silent, but she was obviously in a torment of doubt.

  “Without help,” he pursued, speaking nothing but the truth, “we shall have to make persistent inquiries. When we do that, it is often embarrassing for the people concerned. We find out all sorts of things.”

  She had found a handkerchief somewhere. She twisted it in her hands. Martineau waited for her to speak.

  “I didn’t do anything. I didn’t harbor him,” she said at last “He came here and just walked into the house.”

  “You are referring to Don Starling, of course?”

  “Yes. He said he was going to stay here for one night, and if I didn’t hide him he’d tell Gus all sorts of lies about me. I—I was afraid of him, so I hid him in the attic, and this morning Gus heard him.”

  “He slept in the attic? On the bare boards?”

  “I gave him two blankets, but I moved them this morning before the detectives came.”

  “Did you see him hit Gus?”

  “No. I was in bed. He came into the bedroom, and accused me of having told Gus. I told him he’d done it himself with making a noise. I said he’d better go quickly, in case the police came to see Gus about the murder. So he went, and Mrs. London—that’s the doctor’s wife—saw him going away from the house.”

  “What time did he come, last night?”

  “About five to eight.”

  “Was he very hungry?”

  “He made me give him a meal, but I wouldn’t say he was starving.”

  “Was he dirty and unshaven?”

  “Not particularly. He had a wash before his meal, but—” She remembered something. “—Yes, he did need a shave, but not too badly.”

  “What was he wearing?”

  She described Starling’s clothes as well as she could.

  “Did he ask for money?” Martineau pursued.

  “No. At first I thought he’d come for money. He said he didn’t want money.”

  “You mentioned money and he said he didn’t want any?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, well!” said Martineau. “A man on the run…” He looked thoughtful. He began to pace about.

  One quality of a good policeman is the ability to remember to ask all the questions which should be asked. Martineau had his share of that ability. Now he remembered to pose two pertinent questions before he asked the one which now might be the most important. But Mrs. Hawkins could give him no clue as to where Starling had been when he came to her, nor where he went when he left her.

  “Too bad,” said Martineau. “Now, did you notice anything unusual about his appearance?”

  “I don’t think so. What do you mean?”

  “You saw him wash his hands. Did you watch him eat his meal?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he have dirty, broken fingernails?”

  “I didn’t notice his nails.”

  “So his hands seemed to be quite clean and well cared for? As clean as mine, for instance?”

  “No, not as clean as yours. His fingers were sort of stained.”

  “What color?”

  “Green.”

  “You’re sure about the stain, and the color?”

  “I’m quite sure. They weren’t as green as Gus’s, but I remember noticing them and wondering if it was the same sort of stuff he’d got on his hands.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Hawkins. Now I’m afr
aid I’ll have to use your phone again. Do you mind?”

  She did not mind. She heard him giving the new information to Headquarters. He put some emphasis on the matter of green-stained hands. He wanted her to hear him, so that she would not forget.

  4

  When he had taken Mrs. Hawkins’ statement and left the house, Martineau remembered to telephone his wife. Though he had failed her with regard to dinner, he could at least tell her he would not be home for tea. He stopped at the first public telephone, but there was no answer to his call. So she was out, somewhere. He sighed. He would have to call later.

  He forgot to call later.

  5

  About the time that Gus Hawkins was taken to the hospital, his enormous but dim-witted henchman, Bill Bragg, strolled from his home to the Brick Lane Working Men’s Club. There it was his practice on Sunday mornings to have a pint or two of beer before the normal opening time, to engage in conversation with friends, and to acquire certain information.

  Bill talked a lot that morning. Because of his connection, through Gus Hawkins, with yesterday’s crime, his friends were interested in what he had to say. But at eleven forty-five he got up to go home. His Sunday dinner would be on the table at twelve noon, and he did not want to be late for the best meal of the week.

  On his way out of the club he paused at the bar and quietly asked the steward a question.

  “It’s a good job you didn’t ask me five minutes since,” the steward told him. “They’ve just been through on the phone. Moorcock is off. They’ve changed it to Fly Holler.”

  “What’s up wi’ the Moorcock?” Bill wanted to know.

  “That’s what I said, but I were told I’d fare better if I ast no questions,” the steward replied. “Are you going to the Fly?”

  Bill looked through a window at a patch of sky. “I’ll see how I feel when I’ve had me dinner,” he said. “I might go, if it keeps fine.”

  After dinner he was still undecided, but he made up his mind quickly when Mrs. Bragg suggested going out to tea and spending the evening at the home of her sister. The sister’s husband was a teetotaler whom Bill despised.