Murder Somewhere in This City Read online

  He was tempted, but he laughed, thinking of her sudden alarm if he took her at her word.

  “Business first,” he said. “I thought Don Starling and all his friends were on your list of things which mustn’t be mentioned at mealtimes.”

  She sat up. “Don Starling! What about him?”

  “Have you seen him during the last few days?”

  “No,” she said.

  He thought he had detected a slight hesitation before the answer. “Are you sure?” he persisted.

  “I haven’t set eyes on him,” she replied deliberately.

  He frowned, watching her keenly. “Can you think of any reason why he would want to see you?” he asked.

  She appeared to meditate. “No,” she said. “I can’t. I’m not the sort of person he’d come to for money, or—or for anything else. We were barely on nodding terms when he was sent to prison. I don’t have anything to do with such as him.”

  “He might come to you for shelter.”

  “I shouldn’t think so. Well, he hasn’t asked for shelter, anyway. I haven’t seen him.”

  Martineau was not satisfied. There was something missing. If she had had no contact of any sort with Starling, why hadn’t she demanded, indignantly, the reason why she of all people should be questioned about him?

  “You did know him quite well at one time, didn’t you?” he probed.

  “Yes. But that was years ago, before I met Chris, Chris Lusk. I thought he was a bit wild, but when I found out what he really was I dropped him like a hot cinder.”

  “Still, he might come to you for shelter. He was seen hanging around here. He tried your door.”

  “He—he tried my door?” She was obviously terrified. She put a hand to her face, as if to protect it. “When? When was that?”

  “Early on Saturday night.”

  “Oh,” she sighed, curiously relieved. Then she was assailed by a new fear. “Do you think he might come here again?” And before he could answer she said: “Oh no, he won’t come again.”

  “What makes you think he won’t?”

  “Well, I—I don’t think he’d dare.”

  “You don’t? He’s pretty daring, you know. Do you keep your doors locked all the time? When you’re at home, I mean.”

  “No, of course I don’t,” she said, and then she was on her feet, staring at Martineau. Her face was chalk-white. “He might be in here now,” was her panic-stricken whisper. “He might be listening to us. He might have crept in while I was upstairs.”

  “Now, now, take it easy,” said Martineau. “Of course he isn’t here.” But he could not prevent himself from taking a speculative look at the pantry door.

  Lucky came to him, as if for protection. She seized his arm. “I’m safe while you’re here,” she said. She shuddered at an intolerable thought. “Don’t go till you make sure he isn’t here. Lock the doors and search everywhere.” She stooped quickly to the hearth. “Here, take the poker.”

  He looked at her curiously. “Has Starling been threatening you?” he wanted to know.

  “Yes—no. Go on, make sure he isn’t here.”

  Her terror was very real. He locked the doors and searched the house. Lucky, tensely holding the poker, was at his elbow wherever he went.

  The house was small, and it was tidy. It did not take long to make sure that no man was hiding there.

  “Now then,” said Martineau. “Put that poker down, and tell me about Starling.”

  “I daren’t tell you,” she said.

  “Because he threatened you?”

  “He said he’d carve me up.”

  “Well, never mind. I’ll see that he doesn’t. Why did he threaten you?”

  “If I told you, it wouldn’t help you one little bit.”

  “Let me be the judge of that.”

  “I daren’t,” she said, and ran to him. Her distress was undoubtedly genuine. “You don’t know what it is,” she said, with her head against his shoulder, “to have no man of your own to protect you from people like Don Starling. You have to pretend to be bold and tough, just to keep your end up.” And then, though she was weeping, she said with a kind of anger: “I never had a man who was any bloody good.”

  He raised her chin and smiled down at her. “Now, Lucky,” he chided gently. “Don’t be such a softy. There’s nothing to be afraid of. I won’t let Starling get near you. Why don’t you trust me, and tell me all about it?”

  She told him about Saturday night’s phone call from Starling.

  “You were right,” he said, when the little tale was ended. “It doesn’t help much. But thanks all the same. Nobody will ever know you’ve told me.”

  “What will you do now?” she asked.

  “I’ll put some men out,” he said. “Starling has no reason to hurt you, but they’ll serve the double purpose of protecting you and picking up Starling if he shows his face around this district. You haven’t a thing to worry about.”

  She was still close to him, and he was holding her gently, with one arm around her. Suddenly she hugged him hungrily, pressing close to him. That was too much for him. He put both arms around her, and became aware of her nearly-naked torso beneath the dressing gown. She smelled sweet and clean.

  She was on her toes. “Ooh, you!” she said, and put her aims around his neck. She pulled his head down and kissed him fiercely. “You!” she said again. He kissed her, quite literally sweeping her from her feet; and then over his shoulder she saw the time by the clock on the fireplace.

  She broke away from him. “That’ll do, for a start,” she said. Her self-possession quickly restored his, but he may have looked disappointed. Smiling, she reached up and touched his face. “Call it a promise, darling,” she said. “Just now there isn’t time. I’ve got to go to work.”

  He left her then, with a reminder that he would post some men to he in wait for Don Starling. He thought it quite possible that the hunted man, with no place to go, might call at Lucky’s house again. By intimidation he had forced her to help him once, and he would expect to be able to do so a second time.

  Then, deep in thought, Martineau drove slowly back to Headquarters. “I’d better take Devery the next time I go to see Lucky,” he decided. It was obvious that she expected him to call again, and without Devery.

  He pondered, with some inward excitement, about Lucky. Would he go to see her again, without Devery? It was a delicious temptation. She was certainly attractive. Quite lovely, really. And she was a good girl. Or at least, she wasn’t a bad one. She had been unfortunate: she had never had a man who was any good. She had been a good wife to the wastrel who married her. Fortunately she hadn’t had any children by him. What sort of a mother would she have made?

  9

  At Headquarters, Martineau heard some interesting news. A man with green fingers had been brought in for interrogation. And the man was Doug Savage, unofficial landlord of the Prodigal Son Inn.

  At that moment, Martineau was informed, Savage was being put to the question by Superintendent Clay. The interview was taking place in a bleak, windowless, nearly soundproof room at the far end of the C.I.D. office. The room went by various names, the most common of which were the Torture Chamber, the Sweating Room, and the Bank Manager’s Office. But any torture practiced there was purely psychological. The aspect of the room itself was a help to detectives. Suspects had a feeling that they were shut off from the free world, in a place where anything could happen.

  Martineau said: “Doug Savage with stained hands?” and frowned. He had talked briefly with Savage a few hours after the crime, and at that time his hands had been quite clean. Moreover, he had an alibi.

  “I’d better go along there,” he said, and as he went he reflected that some of the dusted money might have been passed to Savage over the bar in his pub, simply to pay for drinks.

  He entered the interrogation room. It had a bare concrete floor, white-tiled walls and an off-white ceiling, because it was really an uncompleted washroom. The only articles
of furniture were a table and four chairs in the center of the floor, and a small desk and a chair for a shorthand writer in one corner. Clay and Doug Savage were seated facing each other across the table. A burly detective stood behind the equally burly innkeeper, another detective stood beside the door, and a clerk sat at the desk.

  Clay looked up when Martineau entered. It was a surly, irritable glance. Evidently the interview was not going well. Savage looked surly too, and wary; but not yet nervous.

  “Hello, Inspector,” said Clay, and he rose. “Come outside a minute.”

  Outside the room, Clay said: “I’ve got to see the Chief now, so I’ll turn Savage over to you. All we’ve got on him are his green fingers, and he won’t admit a thing. Won’t say a word except ‘Why have I been arrested?’”

  “Have you drawn his attention to his green fingers?”

  “No,” said the superintendent. “I never mentioned his fingers. You please yourself. I’m off now. He’s all yours.”

  Martineau returned to the room and sat in Clay’s chair. For some time he sat in silence, considering Savage, looking him up and down. The innkeeper was a big young man. He was quite handsome in a swarthy, bull-necked way. But in spite of his dark skin he always looked very clean and well turned out. This morning he was dressy—elegant with an ineradicable touch of vulgarity—in a well-pressed gabardine suit, a nylon shirt and a bright silk tie, for he had been picked up while doing some shopping in Castle Street.

  “Have a cigarette, Doug,” said Martineau at last.

  “Thanks,” said Doug, taking a Player’s from the proffered packet. “So you’re going to try the soft stuff.”

  “Call it that if you like,” Martineau rejoined. “I’m going to give you the chance to show you’ve got some sense.” He was looking at the other man’s hand as he lit the cigarette for him. The green dye on his fingers was in faint small blotches and streaks. Considering that in all probability there would now be much less of the dry powder on the stolen money, it looked as if Doug had handled more than one or two of the stolen notes, though he may not have handled a great many. It looked as if he had been in contact with someone who had had quite a lot of the money. Within the last thirty-six hours he had met and probably spoken to one of the murderers of Cicely Wainwright.

  “All right, get cracking,” Doug challenged. “I’ve been here too long already.”

  Martineau mentally reviewed Doug’s record. It was a record of violence and dishonesty, but not a record in which those two criminal characteristics ever appeared together. Doug’s offenses were disorderly conduct, assault on police, obstruction of police and malicious wounding on the one side, and many cases of fraud on the other: fraud connected with black market, with racing and football, with the money and property of the various people who had been unwise enough to enter into trade with him. He was an incorrigible “twister,” as untrustworthy as a starving mongrel. It was fortunate for him that his mother’s inn was a free house, so that he could not defraud any brewer who had the power to throw him out. And his mother knew him too well to let him take more than small amounts from her.

  But he was not a thief in the exact meaning of the word: he did not commit larceny. And he was never violent in cold blood, for the sake of gain. As a criminal, Doug had little in common with a man like Don Starling. The two disliked each other.

  Martineau thought: Doug is innocent, and he feels very virtuous and indignant. It makes a nice change.

  He said: “I saw you on Saturday, and you told me you’d seen nothing of the crime which happened right outside your pub. You said you knew nothing about it.”

  Doug nodded. “That’s correct.”

  “But now we have some evidence which implicates you.”

  “So I’m told. You’d better show me this evidence.”

  “We’re not going to show you. Not yet, anyway. But the evidence is there.”

  “Nay, Inspector! I thought you’d have more sense. You expect me to believe a tale like that?”

  “For your own good you’ll believe it.”

  “The well-known phrase! When the hell did a copper ever worry about what was good for anybody but himself?”

  Martineau grinned. “Not often,” he said. “And I’m not worrying now. You’re the one who needs to worry.”

  “You once told me an innocent man never needs to worry.”

  That made Martineau pause. “A shrewd thrust, Doug,” he said. He wondered how on earth he was going to get information from this man, this intelligent man, who had been taught from boyhood that he must never tell the police anything. There was only one way: convince him if possible of the honesty of police intentions, and then put the fear of God into him.

  “An innocent man doesn’t need to worry,” he said, “if he’s prepared to maintain his innocence by giving a full account of his actions.”

  “Ah, you mean you want me to open my mouth and put my foot in it. Having no evidence against me, you want me to give you some.”

  “How can you, if you’re as innocent as you say?”

  “I don’t know. I’m not taking any chances.”

  “Listen, Doug,” said Martineau. “How long have you known me?”

  “Too long.”

  “Have I ever tried to fix you for something you didn’t do?”

  “You’ve walloped me a time or two,” replied Doug reminiscently, and with a certain amount of respect.

  “I’ve walloped you when you were being a rough boy. I’ve never laid hands on you to make you admit anything.”

  “I dare say that’s true,” was the reluctant answer.

  “I repeat, have I ever falsely accused you?”

  “No, I can’t say as you have.”

  “Have I at any time exaggerated the evidence against you?”

  “No.”

  “Well, I’m not exaggerating it now. We have evidence. You have an alibi, but there is such a thing as accessory after the fact.”

  “If there’s evidence, you planted it.”

  Martineau shook his head. “You know perfectly well I don’t go in for planting. Besides, this is something the police couldn’t have planted. But you’re on the right track. Intentionally or otherwise, someone has implicated you. They’ve dragged you in. But if you’re innocent you can soon get yourself out.”

  “By talking?”

  “By answering my questions.”

  “Ask your questions, and we’ll see whether I’ll answer.”

  “All right. We’ll summarize your first statement. All Saturday morning you were in the Prodigal Son, getting ready to open. Then you had a bath and a shave, and your dinner; then you helped in the bar until some friends called with a taxi, and you went to Doncaster with them. You have witnesses, and all that has been verified. By the way, what sort of a taxi was it?”

  “A Silverline. Your man verified that, too.”

  “Do you usually have a Silverline when you go to the races?”

  “No. We usually have Laurie Lovett, but be let us down. He said he was booked up.”

  Martineau nodded, and made a note of the name, though he attached no significance to it.

  “When you got back from the St. Leger,” he continued, “you had your tea and then worked in the bar till closing time. Then you had your supper, read the Sports Final, and went to bed.”

  “You never said a truer word.”

  “Right. Now I’ll tell you something. While you were in the bar I dropped in to see you—”

  “Just when I was busy.”

  “—and while I was talking to you I noticed that the evidence which implicates you wasn’t there. Get that clear, Doug. It was between that interview, and this morning, that you were drawn into the job. So now we get down to cases.”

  Doug began to show interest, and some uneasiness. “Do you mean to say there’s some evidence in the pub?” he demanded. “Did you plant it while you were there?”

  “The pub is being searched at this moment,” said Martineau, “but the
evidence I am referring to is not there. And, wherever it is, I couldn’t have planted it. I can prove it. I came into your place and touched nothing and nobody, and I didn’t have a drink.”

  Doug was bewildered. “I wish you’d tell me what this damned evidence is,” he protested.

  Martineau would have liked to say that it was the Mark of Cain, but he refrained. “I can’t tell you yet,” he said. “But the sooner I get my men, the sooner you’ll know what the evidence is and who shopped you, if you were shopped. Let’s move on to Sunday. Sunday morning?”

  “Cleaning up. Putting a couple of barrels on. I never went out.”

  “Any visitors before opening time?”

  “Only the cleaning woman.”

  “Were you in the pub for the full opening hours yesterday?”

  “Yes. The whole time.”

  “Sunday is your long afternoon off, isn’t it? You went out between two o’clock and seven, I suppose?”

  Doug hesitated, and Martineau smiled. He saw the pattern clearly. The races, the tossing school. It was at the tossing school that the innkeeper had handled marked money. He could not have taken enough of it over his bar.

  Martineau’s pressure was very gentle. “If you went to a gaming school,” he said, “it’s no great concern of mine. I don’t even want to know where the school was. It’d be in the County area, anyway.”

  “All right,” said Doug. “I don’t see as there’s any harm in admitting I was at the tossing school. But it’s a good job you don’t want to know where it was, because I wouldn’t tell you.”

  “We won’t quarrel about that,” said the inspector, “so long as you tell me the names of the men who were there.”

  “I’m not giving you any names at all.”

  Martineau did not immediately pursue the issue. “The place you went to was an alternative site to the one near the Moorcock?” he suggested.

  “Yes, the Moorcock was off. But why are you asking me, if you know it all?”

  “Confirmation, just confirmation. But I’m not interested in gambling, or a bit of illegal booking, or the extraction of loose cash from a mug. I’m talking about the brutal murder of a young girl who never did a bit of harm to anybody. You don’t hold with that, do you?”