Murder Somewhere in This City Read online

  “By God I don’t.”

  “Well, it’s the murderers I’m after. It was at the tossing school yesterday, or in your own pub, that somebody involved you in this murder. It was done quite unknown to yourself. You don’t owe that person any protection, as I see it.”

  “You’re damn right I don’t. If you’re telling the truth.”

  “I’m telling the truth. You were a winner at the school, weren’t you? Or a winner for a time, at any rate?”

  “Yes. How the devil do you know that?”

  “Just a guess. I don’t want to know how much you won. I just want the names of the men who were there.”

  “And I’m not telling you.”

  “Did you notice anybody who was abnormally flush with money?”

  It was an old and very common police question. Doug shook his head. “I didn’t notice anything.”

  Martineau was patient. “As I keep telling you, this is a murder job, not a gambling case. And in a murder job, personal considerations are not allowed to obstruct the investigation. If you won’t help me, I shall set about the job in another way. I shall start at the Prodigal Son. Every customer will be questioned.”

  “It’s blackmail.”

  “It is not. It’s something that’s got to be done.”

  “You’ll get me a bad name. You’ll frighten all my trade away.”

  “That’s your worry. What’s up with you, man? You know what I’m after. Murderers! Look, if you happen to give me the right names, it’ll do you a bit of good with the Chief. He might be inclined to overlook the next licensing offense, if ever there is one.”

  “I’m glad you said the last bit. I run my pub right.”

  “I don’t care how you run it. How did you get out to the gaming school?”

  “I went in a car, with Les Norrish.”

  “Les Norrish from the Black Bull? Right. Who else was in the car?”

  “Nobody else.”

  “Who did you see at the school?”

  Doug began to mention names. Martineau reflected that he would probably withhold a few, but that did not matter. By questioning the men whose names he had given, the police would get all the others.

  “That’s about all I can remember,” he said, after some final pondering.

  Martineau nodded. “Now give me the names of the people who were in the Prodigal Son on Saturday night and Sunday,” he said.

  Doug exploded. “I knew it was a bloody trick!” he bawled.

  Martineau stared him down. “It wasn’t a trick at all,” he said. “I shan’t come near your place. But I must have some names to round off the inquiry. If it’s necessary to interview ’em, we won’t do it in your pub, and they won’t know who’s given their names.”

  Somewhat reassured, Doug began to give more names. Soon he became interested in the number of people he could remember. He gave over fifty names. “And that’s not to mention the casuals I never saw before,” he concluded with pride.

  Martineau went to the head of the gaming school list again. “This Sam Jackson, where does he live?” he asked.

  “Out Boyton way, somewhere.”

  “What’s his job, if any?”

  “I have no idea.”

  Martineau nodded, and asked for a general description, not forgetting physical oddities or abnormalities. He went on down the list, underlining the names of men he knew, and men of whom he had heard. They were the ones he would seek out first.

  At the end, he had eighteen names underlined. Among them were Laurie Lovett, Lolly Jakes, and Clogger Roach.

  10

  Laurie Lovett’s taxi garage was a wooden structure in a cindered yard behind a lemonade brewery. Outside, there was a small petrol pump. Inside, there was room for five or six cars, and a tiny office with a telephone. The doors were wide open, and a car was standing half in, half out of the doorway.

  The car was a middle-aged blue Austin with a taximeter in the usual place near the edge of the windscreen. The bonnet was raised, and Laurie Lovett in shirt sleeves was stooping over the engine. When the police car stopped behind him he turned his hard, thin face to see who had arrived. Then he went on with his work.

  Martineau and Devery got out of the police car and went over to him. Without speaking, they watched him work for a little while. His hands and his muscular forearms were quite covered with black grease.

  Lovett was the first to speak. He stood erect and began to wipe his hands with cotton waste. “What’s up now?” he asked in an unfriendly tone.

  “One or two things,” said Martineau. “I’m looking for Don Starling, and I’m also looking for his mates in last Saturday’s little job.”

  “I know what you mean. The murder. Why come to me?”

  “You’re a taxi man. You get around.”

  “Plenty of other taxi drivers too. They get around an’ all.”

  “That is so. But your name gets mentioned.”

  “Ah. Who mentions it?”

  “Who’s likely to?”

  “How the hell do I know?” Lovett demanded. He had been busy with his hands, seemingly intent on wiping off the thick oil, but now he looked up, and his eyes met Martineau’s bleak gray glance. The inspector did not like him; did not like the look of him at all. Why had he selected this man to be one of the first on Doug Savage’s list? He remembered now. Lovett had been unable to take Savage’s party to the races at Doncaster. He had had another engagement. With whom?

  Before the question could be asked, another taxi came into the yard. It was driven by a young man of twenty or twenty-one. Martineau recognized him as the young driver who had been in the Moorcock Inn at noontime on Sunday.

  The young man’s glance shifted quickly from Martineau’s, and he called out: “Owt come in, Laurie?”

  “No,” said Laurie. “Off you go down to the rank.”

  “Right,” said the youth, but Martineau called sharply: “Just a minute! I want you.”

  “Who’re you?” was the truculent demand.

  “You know well enough who I am. Come here!”

  For a moment it seemed that the youth would disobey, and Devery made a move toward the police Jaguar. That settled the matter. The newcomer got out of his taxi.

  He lit a cigarette as he walked across to the group of men, and both the policemen looked hard at his opened right hand as he threw the match away. The hand was dirty; the grime on the balls of the fingers might have had a faint greenish tinge, but there could be no certainty about it.

  It was Devery who spoke first.

  “Passing Clouds,” he said in a slightly mocking tone.

  The remark drew everyone’s eyes to the cigarette. It had a distinctive oval shape. The young driver flushed and glanced at Laurie Lovett. Then he said to Devery: “What about it? What’s it got to do with you what I smoke?”

  No further reference was made to the cigarette. But the thought was in Martineau’s mind: A young fellow who might be expected to smoke Woodbines at two-and-seven for twenty was smoking Passing Clouds at a price somewhere in the vicinity of four shillings. Increased earnings would be unlikely to make a young taxi driver go for that type of cigarette, but sudden unaccustomed money might.

  “Is this your young brother?” he asked of Lovett. “He looks a bit like you.”

  “He’s my brother.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Gordon.”

  Acting on an impulse, Martineau addressed the youth. “All right, Gordon. I want you to come to the police station with me. I’m going to ask you one or two questions.”

  “About what?” Laurie snapped.

  “About what he was doing on Saturday, for a start.”

  Gordon’s face was red. “I’ve done nowt,” he cried. “You can’t pull me in when I’ve done nowt.”

  “Suspicion, Gordon, suspicion. We can arrest without warrant on reasonable suspicion that a felony has been committed. Just weigh that up.”

  Gordon did not pause to weigh it up. “What felony?” h
e demanded in a high voice.

  “Murder.”

  “Bloody rubbish!” Laurie interjected. “You can’t accuse that lad of murder. And you don’t take him in without me.”

  “All right,” said Martineau agreeably. “You come along as well. We’ll wait till you’ve washed your hands.”

  Laurie glared at him, then he strode into the garage. Devery followed him casually; hands in pockets, staring around.

  “You got a search warrant for this place?” the taxi proprietor demanded curtly, as he cleansed his hands.

  Devery grinned. “Not yet,” he said.

  “Then get out!” Laurie snarled. “This is private property.”

  “All right,” said Devery. He drifted a few paces toward the door, still keeping Laurie in view.

  “‘Get out,’ I said!”

  “Sure.” Devery moved one pace.

  Glowering, Laurie dried his hands. Perhaps he also did some hard thinking. He strode past Devery and said to Martineau: “I’ve changed my mind. I’m not coming with you.”

  “And I’ve changed mine,” said the inspector. “You’re the one I’m taking in.” For Devery had taken his hands from his pockets. He was holding them up, and tapping the fingers of one hand with the forefinger of the other.

  “You’re taking me in!” Laurie exclaimed. Then he asked: “You’re letting the kid go?”

  “No. I’m taking him too. He can keep you company.” Laurie looked as if he were going to fly at Martineau. But the inspector had a reputation. Men who flew at him usually regretted the action. The taxi man had to content himself with a bitter protest. “It’s a lousy deal,” he said. “You coppers don’t seem to realize that a man has his living to make. Who’s going to repay me and the kid for our lost time?”

  “Write to your Member of Parliament about it,” said Martineau. “Come on, get into this car!”

  “Just a minute. I’ll have to lock up the garage.”

  “I’ll send some men to lock it up,” the inspector replied.

  “Yes,” Devery added. “They’ll have a search warrant, too.”

  11

  At Headquarters Martineau left the two brothers in separate rooms, under guard. As they were parted, Laurie said: “Tell ’em nothing, kid,” and Gordon nodded, but he looked so nervously preoccupied that the message did not seem to register in his brain. His wild absent look told the experienced C.I.D. man that his thoughts were scurrying around in his head like rats in a cage. And rats are not conspicuously bothered by fellow feeling. They seek a way out for one, leaving others to follow if they can.

  There was a message for Martineau. Inspector Vanbrugh had been trying to reach him on the phone. He remembered how helpful Vanbrugh had been, and he called him up at once.

  The County man sounded impatient. “What’s going on?” he demanded. “I hear you’ve made an arrest.”

  “We’ve picked up two brothers called Lovett,” said Martineau cautiously, “but there’s no charge yet.”

  “Do they keep a pub? I thought it was somebody who kept a pub.”

  “Oh, him!” said Martineau. He told Vanbrugh about the list of names he had obtained from Doug Savage. “The whole thing started with the theft of a bookmaker’s money,” he concluded. “The horse-racing angle has been there all the time, and gaming school types are usually interested in racing.”

  The explanation was unnecessary. Vanbrugh had been fully aware of the sporting aspects of the case. Nevertheless, he listened without comment. He seemed to be very thoughtful when he rang off, and he did not ask for any of the names which Savage had given.

  Martineau sent a search crew, with a warrant, to the house where Gordon Lovett lived with Mr. and Mrs. Laurie Lovett. He and Devery, with another warrant, returned to the taxi garage. They searched the place thoroughly, and the last thing they examined was a dusty, battered old spare taxi which looked as if it were waiting to be dragged away by a wrecker.

  They found nothing in the body of the car, but Devery was not satisfied to leave it. He had been puzzling over the significance of four pistons which he had fished out of a pail of dirty paraffin. He tried to start the car, and found that it had no battery. Then he tried turning over the engine with a starting handle.

  “This thing’s like a hurdy-gurdy,” he said. “There isn’t a ha’porth of compression. I think they’ve taken the pistons out.”

  Martineau looked at him thoughtfully. “We’d better have a look,” he said.

  The cylinder head block was not screwed down very tightly. They removed it, and found that the four cylinders were stuffed with wads of greaseproof paper. Each wad contained a thick roll of paper money: many one-pound notes and a number of fivers.

  “The bees an’ honey,” said Devery coolly, concealing his elation.

  “You’re a good boy,” replied Martineau, not to be outdone in imperturbability. “Handle it carefully. Fingerprints, you know. You’ve heard of fingerprints.”

  “Malachite green too,” said the younger man. “There should still be traces of it.”

  12

  Back at Headquarters, the rolls of money were placed on the table in the interrogation room. Then Martineau sent for the younger Lovett. He had been too long a policeman to be sentimental about the fraternal feelings of thieves and murderers, and he had no qualms about using the evidence of one brother to hang the other, if the other were guilty.

  When Gordon was brought to the room, with a certain amount of grim ceremony, he looked as if the short period of waiting in custody had not been good for him. His face was pale and his eyes were dark. He was jumpy and apprehensive.

  “Sit down,” said Martineau, indicating the chair which faced him. “Nobody’s going to hurt you—yet.”

  Gordon sat, and tried not to look at the money on the table.

  “We found it,” said Martineau. “Your hiding place wasn’t good enough.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the young man replied, now looking at the money in preference to looking at the inspector.

  “I think you do. It’s a quarter share of the money that was taken from a poor murdered girl. But before you tell me all about it, I must warn you that anything you say will be taken down in writing and may be given in evidence.”

  Gordon apparently took the caution to heart. He said nothing.

  Martineau reflected, not for the first time, that the caution was needless hindrance to an investigating officer. “Search him,” he said.

  The search revealed nothing which seemed to be important. There was a wallet which contained a few posed photographs of girls, a driver’s license, and seven one-pound notes. Martineau extracted the notes and put them to one side, then he picked up a small diary. He glanced through it. There were many penciled addresses, notes of calls which Gordon had made with his taxi. The writing was sprawling and childish, with much misspelling. The lad was practically illiterate.

  “Your engagement book,” said Martineau, then he frowned. There were a few ruled pages optimistically headed “Bank Balance.” The pages contained one entry, with yesterday’s—Sunday’s—date against it. The entry was “£10—0—0.”

  “So you got your first payment yesterday,” he commented. “You were to get yours ten pounds at a time, so that you wouldn’t flash too much money all at once.”

  Gordon stared at the table. He seemed to be numb with despair.

  Martineau snapped a question: “Who were the others, besides Laurie and Don Starling?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Gordon mumbled.

  The inspector did not seem to be disappointed. He looked at his watch. “All right,” he said. “Take him back and let him think it over. I’m hungry, and I’m going to be home in time for my tea for once. There’s no great hurry now.” He turned to a waiting detective. “Ducklin, keep your eye on this stuff till I get back. Come on, Devery. You can run me home and then go and get a meal. We’ll clear this job tonight.”

  13

&n
bsp; After tea, when Martineau returned to Headquarters, he was told that Inspector Vanbrugh wanted to speak to him. “What, again?” he said. “All right, get him for me.”

  Vanbrugh seemed to be remarkably cheery when he came on the line. “Hello, Martineau!” he bawled. “Any more progress?”

  “A little. With the Lovett brothers.”

  “Have you got ’em right?”

  “It’s just possible. Laurie Lovett has green fingers. Also, we recovered the best part of a thousand quid, hidden in his garage.”

  “Ha ha! You thought you’d shake me with that bit of news, did you? Well, I also have been trying to make a name for myself. I’ve been awful busy.”

  “Doing what?”

  “I staged a raid. On a tossing school.”

  “On a Monday? I thought they only operated at week ends.”

  “The big rings, yes. But on Monday afternoons there’s a smaller one. The mugs have all gone back to work and this is for the elite: those who have had a big win on Sunday, and the ponces and layabouts and half-inch bookies who want to take their winnings off ’em. When you mentioned all those names you’d got, I thought I might as well interview some of ’em myself.”

  “Did you know the meeting place?”

  “I found out. The taxis are the give-away. Our motor patrols had ’em spotted. The school was at a place called Chatty Clough, which is at the bottom of Chatty Hill.”

  “I’m no wiser.”

  “Of course not. You city denizens ought to learn more about the land we live in.”

  “Get on with your tale. What did you do?”

  “I got our Super on the job. He let me have all the men he could gather. Forty-two, with eight cars and two vans. We went out there and surrounded the place, and closed in.”

  “Was the raid successful?”

  Vanbrugh chuckled. “I’ll say it was. And the best bit of fun I’ve had in years. There was a crow on the top of the hill, and he had us spotted in no time. He want haring down the hill, waving his arms and shouting—he fell twice—and when he got to the ring you’d ha’ thought he was carrying a time bomb. What a scatter! Fellows fled in all directions. Fat ’uns, thin ’uns, bow-legged ’uns and pasty-footed ’uns. They did look funny: I couldn’t run for laughing. One bloke tried to climb a precipice that Hillary and Tensing would have balked at. Another sprinted straight into a bog, and we pulled him out as black as the ace of spades. Yes, it was a good raid.”