Murder Somewhere in This City Page 4

  Julia knocked on the bedroom floor with the heel of a slipper. He played the tune once more, then got up and went to his own bed. Tomorrow was Sunday, but he had to work on a murder.

  He lay in bed and thought about it. He tried to imagine the terror of Cicely Wainwright’s death: crushed down by a heavy knee, among big feet on the dirty floor of an old car. She had been a bonny girl. She would have married and made somebody happy, and had children.

  Julia was asleep. She breathed deeply and evenly. He supposed, tolerantly, that there were faults on both sides. Then a new thought came to him quite suddenly. He wished she would leave him. There was no love in the house. He wished she would go. He wanted a fresh start.

  She hadn’t even asked him if Don Starling had been caught: Starling who had declared himself his mortal enemy. But perhaps she didn’t feel afraid of what Starling might do. He didn’t himself, for that matter.

  He thought: I wonder if Starling has found himself a snug roost for the night.

  6

  When he parted from Martineau in the Green Archer, Devery did not go to a cold supper, or a cold welcome either. He went to a comfortable flat above an old-established furniture shop in Little Sefton Street, where he received a kiss from a girl, a nod from an old man, and a steak pudding from a warm oven. As he sat down to the meal he rubbed his hands and beamed his delight, because they were apt to do things by signs in that household. The girl smiled fondly when she saw how he was enjoying the food. The old man nodded again and grinned.

  The old man’s name was Dick Steele, and for forty-five years he had owned and run the furniture shop—which had four floors and was big enough to be called a warehouse—in a reasonable and old-fashioned way, so that he was not rich and not poor. He was a small man, who had been sturdy. He was a little forgetful nowadays, and yet always ready to recall the past. Throughout that part of the city he was known as Furnisher Steele.

  The girl was his only grandchild. Her name was Sylvia, but with the perversity of those who will speak as they wish and not as they ought, the old man had never bothered to pronounce the name correctly. He called her Silver, and so did everybody else.

  Silver Steele was a natural blonde of Technicolor brilliance. She was a picture. And still following the movie-blonde tradition she was beautiful but dumb. Unfortunately, she was deaf as well, and had been for all of her twenty-one years. She had never heard a sound in her life, and as an adult person she never uttered one. But her remaining senses were alert, and she had a brain in her head. She kept a well-run home for her grandfather, and made her way easily and efficiently in a soundless world. She had a sweet disposition. People liked her and said it was a shame, but she neither needed nor wanted pity.

  “Marvelous!” said Devery as he put down his knife and fork. Silver read the word on his lips. She smiled, and began to clear the table. He went to his armchair—he was so much at home that he had his own chair—and presently she came and sat at his feet, learning with an arm on his knee.

  While Devery ate his supper, Furnisher Steele had been silent. Generally he was garrulous, rambling on about unimportant matters. And as a rule he was avid for information of the sort which can only be obtained from a member of the police force. Within the limits of discretion Devery usually indulged him in this matter, and tonight, with a murder case only a few hours old, he wondered a little because the questions did not come.

  “I suppose you’ve seen the paper?” he said.

  “Aye, I’ve seen it,” was the short reply. Then: “Has Don Starling been caught yet?”

  Devery shook his head.

  “Then it’s time he was!” came the sharp retort. “You’re letting one man take the lot of you for a ta-ta. I thought the police reckoned to be so clever.”

  Devery’s surprise increased. The old man was usually more respectful than critical of the police.

  “We’re doing our best,” he said. “Every policeman in England is on the lookout for him. We’ll get him, all right.”

  He reflected that Furnisher’s interest in Starling was not unnatural. He had followed the criminal’s career ever since the night, some ten years before, when he had broken into the furniture shop. “He came here as nice as pie,” the old man had said many a time. “He said he was looking for a sideboard, and he looked all around. He even looked at me antiques upstairs. Said he’d think about it. Then he came back at night and broke in.”

  “What’s on your mind?” the detective queried. “Surely you don’t think that Starling might come here again? He won’t do that. He’ll keep away from the places where he’s known. He won’t want to be seen.”

  “I don’t like him being out,” was the stubborn reply. “He’s a dangerous man. He’ll do somebody an injury.”

  When Furnisher made that remark he looked at Silver, and Devery wondered if in some queer way he imagined that the fugitive could be a danger to his granddaughter. It was absurd. What possible motive…? The ideas some of these old people get into their heads!

  “What about Inspector Martineau?” the old man followed up. “Is he worried because you can’t catch Starling?”

  He was really inquiring about the state of Martineau’s nerves, because Starling had declared—before judge, jury, press and public—that he would kill Martineau. He had made the announcement at the Assizes two years before, after he had been given a fourteen-year slap in the face by the judge. Because of the long prison term, the threat had not been taken seriously. But now Starling was at large, and people were remembering it.

  “Martineau isn’t worried,” said Devery. “He can handle Starling.”

  “Can he handle a bullet in his back?” asked Furnisher, and Devery smiled. To get close behind his enemy, unseen, the hunted man would have to spend a lot of time waiting around: more time than he could afford in a city where he was known to many people.

  The two men talked a little while longer, but Furnisher did not regain his normal cheery mood. Soon he announced that he was going to bed. “Don’t keep that girl up too long,” he said.

  When he had gone, Devery moved over to the settee with Silver. They sat close together. He squeezed her a little and kissed her, that was all. Though he desired her greatly—and he was no more straitlaced than the average young man—an unrecognized touch of chivalry prevented him from making importunate love to a girl who could only resist in desperate silence. And now he could afford to wait. They were to be married in a few weeks.

  Apart from the times when her physical nearness affected him, Silver was peace. She did not need to be entertained with constant talk, either vocal or manual. She was content just to be beside him. Devery was aware of that, and he liked it. Her continued silence never bored or irritated him. In her company he realized how often normal people talk just to hear the sound of voices.

  He had met Silver in unusual circumstances. It was one of those things which could only happen to a policeman. It occurred during his last tour of night duty, in uniform, before he was transferred to the detective staff. Finding the front door of a five-story office building standing wide open after midnight, and seeing a light on the top floor, he went to investigate. As he ascended the dimly lighted stairs he heard a continuous strange noise, and he was unable to decide what made it. Swishuffle, swishuffle, swishuffle. A hundred women with a hundred brooms? Two elephants having a sparring match? Somebody dragging something very heavy?

  As he climbed, each landing became progressively more shabby and each locked office door less ornate. On the top floor, whence came the noise, there was only one door, labeled G.S.D.D.P. He knocked and received no answer. He opened the door and entered cautiously, and found himself in a large bare room, and in the presence of some two hundred people. They were dancing, in silence, in time to the movements of one man who stood on a dais, holding a conductor’s baton.

  The dancing stopped, and two hundred people stared at Devery in silent embarrassment, as if they had been caught acting the fool in secret. Only one person smiled
. She was a lovely blonde girl who happened to be near the door. Devery was embarrassed too, and he returned the girl’s smile with gratitude. He realized that he had stumbled upon a scene which was not for his eyes: a private revel of afflicted people. He said: “Oh, sorry,” rather foolishly. Then he touched his helmet to the company, took one more good look at the smiling blonde, and hastily got out of there. As he went down the stairs he muttered: “Gad, what a smasher! What a beauty! What a pity!”

  He was in that street again an hour later, when the Society for Deaf and Dumb People’s dance was ending. He saw an old man meet the blonde girl. He watched them walk away. They walked past a taxi rank, so he guessed that they lived not far away.

  The following day he commenced C.I.D. duties. His first inquiry was strictly unofficial. It concerned the dumb blonde. It did not take him long to find her.

  That had happened about two years ago. “Just before the Underdown job,” he remembered. That case was still very much on the agenda. Only one man—Don Starling—had been arrested, and the stuff had never been found. In connection with it, Devery’s mind dwelt on a coincidence. It was not a new thought, because the coincidence had been remarked by Martineau earlier in the day. Neither was it very important; simply a reflection that the Cicely Wainwright murder had occurred on the last day of Doncaster Races, while the Underdown job of nearly two years ago had happened on the last day of Granchester Races.

  PART II Starling

  1

  Unlike Doncaster, Granchester was too big a city to have her economy seriously affected by an important race week. Nevertheless, during the Granchester November meetings, the last flat races of the season, there was a little more money moving in the town. And certain shopkeepers were acutely aware of it.

  The tradesmen who mainly profited by the extra money were those who dealt in luxuries. The amount of their business was increased not only by those who had been lucky at the races, but also by a number of tax dodgers who were quite happy merely to pretend that they had been lucky. By this subterfuge undeclared profits, hitherto an embarrassment, could be spent on furs and jewelry; and especially on diamonds, the favorite investment of all profiteers.

  Nobody was more ready to exploit this human weakness for gambling and modified I.D.B. than Messrs. Underdown (London and G/chester, Ltd.) of Castle Street. Theirs was the largest and most expensive jewelers’ establishment in the city. To attract rich buyers to the even better gems inside the shop, the Underdown display during race week was as fine as any in Europe. It was so valuable that the bronze grilles, which normally protected the windows only at night, were put up in the daytime as well.

  Naturally the police observed the splendor and value of the display, and they kept an eye on it. But no policeman can be in two places at once, and during the afternoons every man who could be spared was at the racecourse, trying to discourage the pickpockets and cornermen, the race gangs, and let-me-mark-your-card tricksters, and the crown and anchor, find the lady, pea and thimble, prick the garter, three-to-one-the-lucky-seven operators.

  On the day of the Granchester November Handicap, nearly two years before the Doncaster St. Leger day on which Cicely Wainwright was murdered, the temporary shortage of policemen inspired a few bright criminals with the notion of selecting a stone or two from the Underdown display without actually entering the shop. For this exploit they chose the starting time of the big race. They supposed that even the bobbies on the streets would slip in somewhere to see the race by television.

  To the mobsters involved, the raid itself was not expected to be a great deal of trouble. They would use an old but effective method. It was the getaway to which the most thought and care were given. They knew that Police Headquarters would be instantly informed of the raid, and they also knew that the police mobile cordon was well-nigh perfect in rapid-alarm cases. Consummate guile, not speed, was needed for the escape. If the police could be induced to pursue the wrong man, or the wrong car… Ah, that was the idea!

  Unfortunately for several people, on the afternoon of the big race there was a young, newly-promoted sergeant of A Division on duty in the heart of the city. Owing to his superiors’ preoccupation with the traffic, the crowds, and the criminals at the racecourse, he “had the town on his shoulders.” He felt the responsibility keenly, and he had no time to think about sport. At three o’clock, the time of the race, he was walking along Castle Street.

  The sergeant was less than two hundred yards from Underdown’s when he saw a three-ton lorry stop at the curb near the shop. That was not strange, but neither was it usual: it was a very shabby lorry and a very smart shop. Then a man jumped from the cab of the lorry and ran to the rear of it. That was a mistake. The sergeant perceived that this might be a matter for the police. When he saw a black Ford car pull in behind the lorry he was certain. It was an old trick, the lorry and the car. He began to run toward Underdown’s. To get along better he left the peopled sidewalk and ran in the middle of the road, and drivers of cars slowed and craned to see whom he was chasing; or, what would be more interesting, to see who might be chasing him.

  The man who had run to the back of the lorry lifted from it a crane hook, which was attached to the lorry by a strong rope. He ran across the sidewalk with the hook, and hung it on the bronze grille which protected Underdown’s main window. Then he ran back to the lorry, and scrambled on behind as it jerked into motion. He lay flat on the empty loading platform, and as soon as the grille had been ripped away from the window he began to saw at the tow rope with a cut-throat razor. The lorry traveled a short distance with the grille skating and clanking behind, then the rope parted and the lorry sped away.

  Before the lorry started, three men alighted from the Ford car which had stopped close behind it. They wore hats pulled well down in front, and scarves which masked their faces up to the eyes in a manner which seems nowadays to have gone out of fashion. One of them—the guard—held a pistol and an eighteen-inch length of lead pipe. He stood near the shop door, turning around watchfully, ready to deal with any person who interfered. A second man ran to the window and swung a fourteen-pound sledgehammer at the “unbreakable” glass. The glass broke, and its foundations had been so badly disturbed by the rough removal of the grille that the whole window fell out. The third man came up with an open canvas traveling bag. The hammer man dropped the sledge and began to sweep rings, brooches, bracelets, necklaces, pendants, earrings and jeweled watches from the shelves into the open bag.

  An alarm clanged inside and outside the shop, and it also shrilled and showed a light on a panel at Police Headquarters. Inside the shop, the manager ran from his office and then ran back to his telephone and rather unnecessarily dialed 999. The senior assistant, a small middle-aged man, looked around helplessly for a weapon, and then dived away to the back of the shop to see what he could find in the mop closet. A young lady assistant stood and screamed. Another assistant, an athletic young man, went out to do battle. He was momentarily stopped by the threat of the pistol, and while he was wondering if the mobster would dare to use it he was knocked out with the lead pipe.

  No sooner had the assistant fallen than a little fat woman shopper waddled impetuously forward—probably she did not realize exactly what she was doing—and snatched at the guard’s kerchief, pulling it down from his face. He cursed her briefly and bitterly, and gave her a back-handed swipe across the shoulder and chest with his leaden club. She fell down, and lay staring up at him.

  The driver of the raiders’ car had remained at the wheel. He had become aware of the approaching police sergeant. He was pounding the horn button, but the sound of the horn was mainly drowned by the din of the jeweler’s alarm. Then, a little late, the guard saw the man in uniform. He shouted and beckoned to the men at the window, and started toward the car. But the sergeant had arrived, with his short, heavy truncheon in his hand. He stretched a long left arm to grab the traveling bag. He also hauled off with the truncheon, ready to strike.

  The bagman resisted,
but the policeman never struck the blow. The guard shot him. It was the third and fourth shots which hit him. The impact, in quick succession, of the two .45 slugs crumpled him as if he had received the thrust of an invisible battering ram.

  The three men tumbled into the car. It started immediately, and took the nearest turn to the right. It sped along the side street and turned right again at the next crossing. Then it followed a zigzag pattern along quiet streets and finally stopped in an alley behind the Royal Lancaster Hotel. The four men abandoned the car and ran along the alley, one of them carrying the canvas bag full of plunder. They scattered, vanishing into other yards and alleys. Obviously the district was familiar to them.

  A little while before the getaway car reached the alley, another black Ford saloon, which had been waiting along the route, started up and followed it. When the first car turned aside and stopped, the second one kept going along the street. With only one man in it, the car fled southward at a high speed. It had a long way to go before it reached open country,

  At Police Headquarters, the alarm had resulted in a broadcast message to twenty Area Patrol cars which were prowling about within the city boundary. Two car crews were instructed to go at once to Underdown’s, and the remainder were alerted. A second, more informative 999 call led to a message about a black Ford saloon, number not yet known. The mobile cordon began to operate.

  The occupants of AP 18, going to Underdown’s as ordered, noticed a black Ford traveling fast in the opposite direction. They were able to inform HQ of the position, direction, estimated speed, model and number of the car. HQ was also interested to hear that the occupant of the car was Edward Hooker, a man with a criminal record as long as a horse’s leg.