Murder Somewhere in This City Read online

  Martineau took that worry home with him after the five prisoners had been charged and locked up. His wife had a good supper ready for him. He had been home to his tea and he had come home to his supper, without, apparently, calling in a pub for a drink. He was a good boy. It appeared that he was about to regain his stripes.

  He ate contentedly, with some absence of mind. If Julia wanted to be friendly for a change, he wasn’t going to commit any breach of the peace. Then he found that he had to give her his attention. There was another reason for her benign, almost affectionate mood. She had been to the pictures. She had seen a film which she liked, and she wanted to talk about it.

  It had been a musical film, and the male star had been a bull-necked tenor. The romantic story, the music, and the bellowing male had affected her. She had a faraway look: she visualized the picture as she talked about it.

  “There was a man in the film—not Paolo Ascari, but another man—who was a bit like you,” she said. “He was the wealthy businessman who was in love with Gina when she was an unknown singer, before she became famous. He paid for her training, without telling her. He gave her father the money, you see. But she met Paolo and fell in love with him, and married him at the finish. So the man’s part was a bit sad.”

  “He was the guy who loved and lost,” Martineau commented, with his mouth full.

  “It was a lovely picture,” she said with a reminiscent sigh. “Absolutely lovely.”

  He so obviously failed to catch her enthusiasm that she thought he wanted to talk about his own affairs. “How did you go on today?” she asked.

  He told her, briefly.

  “Oh, that’s good, isn’t it?” she said. “You’ve done more than anybody. If only it’s you who catches Don Starling… They might make you a chief inspector.”

  “There’s a chance,” he agreed. “There’ll be a vacancy when Ted Hollis retires.”

  Her thoughts dwelt luxuriously on a chief inspectorship. More salary, more authority: more housekeeping money, more social prestige.

  “You’ll get promotion,” she said, “if you get your man.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” he replied, speaking his mind as he was used to speaking his mind on police matters to Julia, because it is one of the duties of police wives, to listen and allow their husbands to “get things off their chests” with safety. “I’m up against stiff competition. There are some damn good men holding my rank. Picking up Starling would help, but it’s not all that important. Not to make a bull-up of it, that’s the thing.”

  She frowned slightly. “But you always said Starling would eventually kill somebody, and that you’d like to be the man who arrested him for the last time.”

  “True enough,” he agreed. “He’s trash, garbage, rubbish. He should be carted away and destroyed. But that’s a personal feeling, wanting to arrest him. I want to be sure it’s done right and proper, without bungling. No loopholes in the law for Mr. Starling. He wants seeing off. If you could have seen that poor kid we found on the moors… Well, to tell the truth, Julia, I do have a feeling about Don. I think he’ll walk into my hands. Wishful thinking, probably. He might be two hundred miles away from here.”

  He was silent, then he said: “That’s the way it’s always been with him and me. Always running into each other, usually head-on.”

  Julia was satisfied. Her husband would be the man who arrested Don Starling. He would handle it right. One thing about Harry, he was a big, strong, capable man. He did not make as much money as some women’s husbands, but to compensate for that he was a complete man. He was neither bald, corpulent nor ailing. He did not wear spectacles and his teeth were his own. He was quite a husband, really—when he was at home. She was moved by a surge of possessive pride. There would be women who envied her such a husband. Yes indeed, she wouldn’t be surprised if there were quite a few women who had an eye on Harry Martineau.

  She rose from her chair and poured him a second cup of tea. He put it on a corner of the table, so that it was in easy reach when he moved to his armchair. He relaxed in the armchair, and lit a cigarette.

  “I enjoyed that. Very good,” he said politely. Then he yawned. It had been a long day.

  She moved across the hearth and perched on the arm of his chair. She was a tall woman for a posture of that sort, but she managed it gracefully enough. Her left arm was on the back of the chair, behind his head. She looked down at his hair, and stroked it. Then she pressed his head against her breast; a firm breast, of satisfactory proportions.

  He noticed that she had a clean pleasant smell about her. She always did have.

  “It’s a long time since you made love to me,” she said.

  He admitted that it was indeed a long time, and refrained from giving his opinion that it was her fault. It had been such a long time that he felt awkward and shy. Also, he had a guilty remembrance of Lucky Lusk. He had been strongly tempted to go to Lucky’s house when he found himself off duty earlier than he expected.

  “It’s late. Let’s go to bed,” Julia suggested. “I’ll come in with you for a little while, if you like.”

  “That’s an idea,” he said, “but—we don’t have any of the doings.”

  She sat up quickly.

  “Why?” she demanded, because it was his business to keep a supply of contraceptives in the house.

  “I keep forgetting to buy some.”

  “You never forgot before,” she accused, though she did not seem to be angry. “You always make sure of having some.”

  “Times change,” he said, for the sake of giving an answer. Then he went on: “It’s time we did without those things, anyway. We’re married, and we ought to behave as if we were married.”

  She had relaxed to her former position. She stroked his hair pensively. For a moment he had a wild notion that she was going to say that she agreed with him. Then he thought: “It’s a good mood she’s in, but not as good as all that. No, not so good.”

  He was right. She got up suddenly. “No,” she said. “I think not. Not tonight, great lover. I’m going to bed; to my own bed. Cheerio.”

  “Good night,” he replied, and as she was leaving the room he drank the last of his tea, and stood up.

  “I suppose you’re going to play your piano now,” she said, without rancor. “One of these days I’ll sell that thing and buy a television set.”

  “Buy what you like,” he said, also in good humor, “but you’d better not sell my piano.”

  She went off to bed. He wandered into the front room and sat down at the piano. He played softly, because he did not want to disturb Julia.

  17

  In the flat over the furniture shop, the supper dishes had been cleared away, and Devery and his sweetheart were happily engaged with pencil and paper. They were making a list of wedding guests. Devery wrote: “My Uncle Ernest. He’ll drink us out of house and home,” and then rapidly at the bottom of the foolscap sheet: “This list is not for publication.” Silver opened her lovely lips in silent laughter, and from his armchair her grandfather smiled at her happiness.

  When the list was finished, Devery began to write pleasing nonsense on the other side of the paper. Silver snatched the pencil from him, and with lips primly pursed though her eyes sparkled, she wrote: “The wedding is off. You are too silly to be married.”

  He took the pencil and replied: “If you don’t marry me I’ll lock you up—and lock myself up with you.”

  She wrote: “If I marry you, will you be good to me?”

  He replied: “No. Ha ha, wait till I have you in me power.”

  She got the pencil and scribbled over his writing, and then there was a tussle, and some laughter. Then he wrote: “What will you be doing tomorrow while I am working for your living?”

  She put a finger to her lips, and wrote: “This also is not for publication. I am going to spring clean the top floor. Granddad doesn’t know.”

  He answered: “You can’t. It’s too big. You’ll be just about dead.”

&nb
sp; “The lifeless bride,” she wrote. “You’ll have to restore me.”

  “I’ll bring you to life, baby,” he replied.

  She wrote: “You are a bad man,” and then the sheet was full. The two lovers sat and looked at each other. He was quite sure that he had never in his life seen anyone so radiantly alive and lovely.

  18

  In the heart of the city Devery sat with his Silver and thought only of future happiness.

  There, too, in the heart of the city lay four men whose liberty Devery had helped to restrain. Laurie Lovett, Lolly Jakes, Clogger Roach, and Peter Purchas could only look forward to an appearance before a magistrate in the morning, and probably an adjournment, and then another appearance where pleas would be made and evidence presented. Since miracles could not be expected, that trial would lead to a committal for trial at the Granchester Assizes. Before a red-robed judge, be-wigged barristers, and a listening jury, there would be examination, cross-examination, and re-examination. Then the speeches of counsel. Then the judge’s careful weighing of evidence as he directed the jury. Then the agony of waiting for the verdict. Then the sentence. To what? Would the judge put on the black cap? Would there be the warden, and the chaplain, and finally the hangman on the gray execution morning? Would there be the final shivering stand on the scaffold, before the world dropped away from beneath the feet? And then what? Choking agony? It was said that it didn’t hurt, that it was over in a split second, but who could really tell? Oh God, said the men in the cells, who did not believe in God, Oh God, preserve us from the death penalty.

  Not far from where those men sat awake in the dark, Chloe Hawkins stood in a dark doorway in a side street. She was with a man, enjoying married life in her alley-cat way because her husband was in the hospital. As she talked with the man she wondered if she dared take him home for the night. The man—who anticipated satisfaction there and then, having no intention of going anywhere with her—was wondering too, how long she was going to chatter, and what his wife would say when he went home so late: feeling guilty when he thought of his wife.

  Not far away too, Lucky Lusk was drinking her nightcap (a cup of tea) and thinking about Harry Martineau. He had no children. All was fair when a man had no kids. If his wife couldn’t hold him, that was her lookout. If Martineau came tomorrow, would she go all the way with him? Could she do anything else? He would regard her invitation as a promise. Any man would. Well, she wanted him. She had wanted him for a long time. I won’t be able to help myself, she thought. I must have him. I’ll keep him if I can. I never had a man who was worth a damn.

  Also in the heart of the city, where he had not ventured since Saturday morning, Don Starling was settling in his night’s hiding place. He was well content with the place, and with himself. Of the six men who were concerned in the murder of Cicely Wainwright, he was the only one who could escape from thoughts of the hangman. That was because he was still at liberty, and also because he was different from the others. They had remained, figuratively, immobile, hoping to avoid discovery. He had kept on the move to evade pursuers.

  And in spite of pursuit he had done what he set out to do. Beside him, within reach, was a small fortune in gems. He knew where to dispose of them—at a fraction of their value, unfortunately—and the money they raised would be all his. It was hard lines on the mob, but they shouldn’t have gone and got themselves locked up. He could hardly be expected to share with them when they were in the hands of the police. And anyway, he needed the money himself. He had a long way to go.

  There was just one thing. Martineau. He had promised to kill that clever sarcastic devil. Killing Martineau couldn’t make matters worse. In fact, it would make them better. Many people who despised him for killing a girl—the Lord knew he hadn’t intended to kill her—would admire him for rubbing out a police inspector whom he had previously warned. And those who didn’t admire him would be scared silly of him. That would help, too.

  But, simply for the double satisfaction of enhancing his reputation and making an end of a man he hated, the gesture of killing Martineau was too risky. Martineau, he remembered, was fly, very fly. Stalking him would be dangerous. It was no use taking a chance on losing everything just for the pleasure of closing an account with an old enemy.

  No, no use at all. Starling was firm on that point. No use making changes now. It was all laid on. Wait here until eleven in the morning, then sneak out and go round to Sammy Toy’s place. It was no use going before eleven, because Sammy couldn’t be depended on to start work until then. He was a wizard mechanic, but slothful. He bought cars and overhauled them and sold them, making a good living that way.

  He always had a roadworthy vehicle of his own: a little car or a van. He did not know it yet, but he was going to transport his old friend Don Starling out of town. Not through the police road checks, but around them. The police hadn’t enough men to block every back alley leading out of Granchester. Sammy would know how to get through. He was used to avoiding the police when he drove unlicensed purchases home.

  Outside Granchester there would be checks on the main roads, but Sammy knew the byways. He would get through. His friend Don would give him a tenner to keep him sweet. A tenner to drive somebody a score of miles to Liverpool. Sammy wouldn’t grumble. Sammy wouldn’t dare grumble because his friend Don would show him a gun.

  In Liverpool dwelt the man who would buy hot sparklers. The same man would also know how to buy a new identity, the identity of an ordinary seaman or steward. At least, Starling had heard that this could be done. Some chief steward or bo’sun would be bribed, and he would get a place on a ship. Once safely out of Britain—that damned difficult place to get out of—he would land at a foreign port and assume yet another identity, that of an American. There were thousands of Americans abroad. If he met any real Americans, he would pretend that he was an American born and bred in England. It would work out all right. He, Don Starling, was capable of making it work out. Yes, it would be all right. It had better be.

  It couldn’t go wrong now. Look what he had done. Got out of Pontfield Prison as clean as a whistle, got a gun, organized a job and got nine hundred nicker (it was a pity that girl had to go and die) and this evening he had rounded it off by picking up the Underdown loot. That had been a good job well done. All the time he had eluded the police. He’d given ’em the dummy proper. The police, the police, the bloody police, Martineau leading on. They hadn’t had a smell of him. They never saw which way he went.

  Starling lay in the darkness considering his uncomplicated plans, while around him the heart of the city pulsed more quietly as midnight approached. The sober crowds had dispersed to their homes, and only the denizens remained; the denizens, and the few who did not want to go home, and the very few who had no homes. He could hear the city’s night sounds, and they were familiar to him: an occasional rushing car, the whir of curtains being drawn across open windows, the click of a streetwalker’s cheap shoes, the hoarse bray of adolescent male laughter, the slurred voices of passing drunks in endless reiterative argument. He thought, with knowledge, of the adulterous embracing all around him; the whisky frisky, sherry merry, brandy randy, ginerous embraces. He grinned in the dark. That was life, as he liked it. That was the city, as he knew it.

  Three miles away, in the suburbs of the city, Julia Martineau was knocking on the bedroom floor with her shoe, and swearing softly; her husband was moving away from the piano. The last knock was followed by the first whir of the telephone bell.

  “No, I’m not in bed,” said Martineau. “Why? What’s up?”

  19

  It was Detective Constable Ducklin on the phone. “It’s a queer affair at the Royal Lancaster Hotel,” he said, with the unction of one who knows he is doing himself a bit of good. “On account of the connection with Don Starling and the Underdown job, I thought I’d better tell you about it.”

  “You did right to tell me. Go on.”

  “Well, it seems they keep a cellarman on duty till eleven o’c
lock. He signs off at the same time as the wine waiters. At half past ten a guest who was throwing a little party asked for some particular sort of wine; some sort of champagne. The waiter phoned the cellar, and got no reply. He thought the cellarman had dodged off home before his time, so he went looking for the wine himself. He found the cellarman trussed up. He’d been hit on the head. He doesn’t know who hit him, or what with. We can’t tell yet if there’s anything missing. The manager has sent for the head cellarman, the old Frenchman, whatsisname, François.”

  “Very good,” said Martineau. “I’ll be with you as soon as I can. I want a car. At once.”

  “I took the liberty of sending a car, sir,” said Ducklin, obviously taking great pleasure in his own forethought. “It should be there any minute.”

  “Right,” said Martineau, and rang off. He was waiting at the gate when the car arrived.

  When he walked into the Royal Lancaster Hotel he found Ducklin making much of what he called “the mystery.” The detective’s mystification was supported by François and the manager, a Swiss called Weiss, both of whom raised their hands, shoulders and eyebrows in complete lack of understanding.

  “If it was Starling, looking for something, nobody knows how he got in, sir,” said Ducklin.

  “He could walk into the lounge or the bar, couldn’t he?” Martineau queried. “There are several ways.”

  “Without being seen, sir? He once worked here. The doormen and the porters know him. And so do the waiters and the barmen, and the pages and the reception staff. The storekeepers and kitchen hands know him even better. It’s reasonable to suppose he didn’t come in at any door, and all the cellar windows are still secure.”