Murder Somewhere in This City Page 5

  A token representing Eddie Hooker in the Ford car was given a place of honor on the big table map at HQ, and it was obvious that he was going to be the prey of either AP 4 or AP 27, both of whom were waiting for him. Two more cars were directed to cut across town and give additional cover, on the typical Headquarters principle that if you tell enough people to do something, it can’t be your fault if it isn’t done.

  The fact that there was only one man in the car led to a strong suspicion that it was the wrong car, but that did not result in any alteration of plans. Eddie Hooker was worth turning up anytime.

  The crew of AP 4 were unlucky. They saw Hooker, and he saw them, but their intention of quickly overtaking him was balked by an elderly lady in an elderly car. She pulled them up sharp by blithely signaling her intention to turn across their path, then she stalled her engine in front of them.

  Hooker sped away from them, but two minutes later AP 27 came surging up behind him. He had known that he would be caught by the police—he was there, more or less, on the understanding that he would be caught—but so much police attention was too much for his nerves. He panicked, and pushed the accelerator down to the floorboard.

  At sixty miles an hour he tried to go over a crossing against the light. A big lorry loaded with carboys rumbled into the moving picture on the other side of his windscreen. Like other people, he always expected carboys to contain corrosive acid. Acid! He swerved blindly to avoid the lorry. The Ford jumped the curb and ran head-on into the solid stone façade of the National Provincial Bank. No car ever built could have taken that impact. The Ford was a write-off.

  Eddie Hooker was a shattered man, but he was still conscious when they extricated him from the wreck. Dazedly he remembered that he had a tale to tell. The two uniformed officers from AP 27 tried to make him comfortable while he waited for the ambulance. He looked at them expectantly, but they were traffic men with an accident on their hands, and for a while they were too busy to question him.

  Martineau, D.I. of A Division, had been hurriedly recalled from the races. On his way to Castle Street, he heard about the accident on the radio of his C.I.D. car.

  “One man. It sounds like a fiddle,” he said to Devery, who was at that time a newcomer in the detective department. “Turn off here. We’ll see if Hooker has anything to say.”

  Devery took the first turning as instructed, and drove to the scene of the accident. He got there before the ambulance. Martineau knelt beside the broken man and said in a friendly tone: “Hello, Eddie. Now what have you been doing?”

  Hooker recognized Martineau. Here was a man who would most certainly ask questions. Well, there was a story all ready for him. The dying man was so anxious to tell it that he did not wait for the smash-and-grab raid to be mentioned.

  “Nowt to do wi’ me,” he whispered painfully. “I were just waiting for a judy. Lucky Lusk. I can prove it. While I were waiting I heard the winder go. Wi’ my record I thought I’d better scarper before I got dragged into trouble.”

  “Where did you get your car?”

  “Hired it for the day.”

  Martineau looked into glazed eyes which still could watch him cunningly, and he smiled. “Come off it,” he said, with good humor. “Who were you stooging for?”

  Eddie Hooker closed his eyes reproachfully, and at that moment the dark angel took him by surprise. Martineau waited some little time before he realized that the eyes would never open again.

  That was one suspect who could never he cross-examined. And he had focused police attention on the wrong car. There were several alternative methods of escape for his accomplices. Martineau considered them all.

  2

  At first the police made rapid progress with the Underdown job. The wounded sergeant, when he could speak, stated positively that the man who shot him was Don Starling. Also, the impulsive little woman who had pulled down Starling’s mask could identify him from photographs.

  The arrest and interrogation of Starling followed a familiar pattern. He was arrested at the home of his married sister, with whom he resided. He had no unusual amount of money, no jewelry, no gun, and no lead pipe; and he answered no questions.

  Martineau had been put in charge of the case, and the negative interview took place in his office. The big policeman faced the less tall but almost equally formidable criminal. They were both about thirty-five years of age, they had known each other from boyhood, and they were sworn personal enemies. Neither was afraid of the other. Starling’s brown eyes did not flinch from the searching gray ones.

  The brown eyes burned in a not unintelligent face. The coarse dark hair was plentiful, brushed back from a low hairline. The man was virile and arrogant: he strutted. He could speak good English with a northern accent, and he was well dressed according to the style he favored. He had been roughly reared in poor circumstances and yet spoiled. Lack of moral training and militant selfishness had resulted in criminal actions, and society’s vigorous reprisals had produced in him a pitiless steely intransigence. Some women thought him handsome, and those who were prepared to take him at his own value were impressed by him. He cared not a fig for any woman; women were prey. But he observed a point of honor with male associates. He would swindle an unwary accomplice, but he would never betray him.

  As boys, at the same council school, in the nearby town of Boyton, Starling and Martineau had fought many a time. Martineau had been the bigger and the better fighter, but Starling had been tough, fearless and vengeful, and they had been not unevenly matched. Then Martineau had moved up to a grammar school, and Starling had moved down to a reformatory. After school, the big city had attracted them both. Martineau had gone into a bank, and Starling had gone into a drapery establishment—after it had been closed for the day. That exploit earned Starling three years in a reform school, and it looked as if the two youths would not meet again. But at the age of twenty Martineau chose a more active life by joining the Granchester police. Soon afterward Starling was released. So, when they met, the two young men were enemies as naturally as wolf and wolfhound.

  In the fifteen years of Martineau’s police service they met a number of times. The pattern of their encounters remained basically the same: Starling was usually, but not always, the loser. He grew to hate Martineau with a corrosive intensity. It was a truly murderous hatred.

  The antipathy between the two men was well known. Once or twice, simply to injure the policeman, the criminal had claimed in court that he was persecuted. But the truth was that he was the last man in the world whom Martineau would have treated unfairly. Martineau would not give his enemy the satisfaction of being a wronged man.

  This latest meeting was brief. Other detectives had—unsuccessfully—questioned Starling about the Underdown job, because there was not a chance in the world that he would ever “sing” to Martineau. The inspector merely interviewed him as a matter of form. He gave him certain information. Eddie Hooker was dead. He had talked a little before he died. The police sergeant was not mortally wounded, but with a shattered pelvis he might be a cripple for life. He knew who had shot him.

  “This is a bad do, Don,” Martineau said. “Very bad.”

  There was a question in the air, which Starling would not ask. He had never served a longer prison term than three years, but now, if he were convicted…

  Martineau answered the unspoken question. “You’ll get fourteen years,” he said bluntly.

  Starling did not even blink. “That’d be good news for you,” he said.

  The inspector shrugged. “You might be able to save yourself a few years,” he said mildly. “But that suggestion isn’t an inducement. I can promise nothing.”

  The reply was a steady malevolent glare. The inspector’s cool unconcern infuriated Starling. Unreasonable hatred mounted in him. “You’re tickled to death because you think you’ve got me right,” he said. “My oath, I wish there were just you and me here.”

  Martineau grinned at him. “Sure you do,” he said. “And when I’d
knocked you silly, you’d want to show your bruises to a magistrate.” He changed his tone to a whine. “‘Please sir, look where the policeman hit me.’”

  Starling stared fixedly at him. “My oath,” he breathed. “My oath.” Then he rushed. But Devery and another officer were watching him. They held him. He struggled for a moment, then steadied.

  Martineau had not moved, or changed his expression. The prisoner breathed deeply several times. “By God, Harry Martineau,” he said. “I’ll do you if it’s my last act in life. I’ll swing for you with pleasure.”

  “Dearie me,” said Martineau. “Threats! Take him away and shove him in a cell.”

  3

  Then there was Lucky Lusk—Mrs. Lucrece Lusk—the woman the dying Hooker had mentioned to be interviewed. Martineau took Devery with him, because it is customary for the police to go in pairs when they have to visit women who live alone. This discreet practice had been brought about by certain misunderstandings in the past. Solitary policemen and lonely ladies… Allegations… It is much more difficult for convincing allegations to be made against two officers.

  Mrs. Lusk was a young, childless divorcee. She still lived in the four-roomed house, in a street of such small houses, which she had occupied for a time with the wandering and amorous Mr. Lusk. The street was in a sooty-brick district of factories and workers’ houses which lurked in its own smoke not far from the plate glass and the colored awnings of Castle Street. She was employed as a full-time barmaid at the Lacy Arms in Lacy Street.

  The Lacy Arms was a busy, well-appointed pub which was patronized by many respectable people. But it was also a resort of some men and women who hesitated when asked what they did for a living. That was why Martineau occasionally went in there for a drink and a seemingly casual look around. That was why he knew Lucky Lusk.

  It was 11 P.M. on the day of the Underdown job before he found time to call on Lucky, and she did not open her door until he had identified himself. Then she opened with a smile, but when she saw Devery she looked resigned.

  “Oh, come in,” she said. “But why didn’t you come alone?”

  Martineau grinned. “It’s your dangerous charm,” he said. “They wouldn’t let me come without a keeper. I suppose you know Detective Constable Devery.”

  She looked the tall young man up and down, and sighed humorously.

  “Yeh, but not intimately,” she said, and Devery laughed. “Come in, lad,” she invited. “Sit you down.”

  She accepted a cigarette, and a light, and said to Martineau: “Well, you’re not here for the fun of it, and that’s a shame. What else can I do for you, sweetheart?”

  “Stop it,” he said. “I know you’re kidding, but others don’t.”

  “Kidding?” She was wide-eyed and reproachful. “I’m not kidding, darling. You know I’m mad about you.”

  Looking into the clear brown eyes, he almost believed her. He could hardly be blamed for wanting to. She was handsome enough: a shapely girl whose shining auburn hair and smooth fair skin proclaimed her perfect health.

  “Oh, give over,” he said. “Where were you at three o’clock this afternoon?”

  “Where would I be? Working! I got away about ten past.”

  “Then where did you go?”

  “Here. Home. What’s the trouble? Am I going to be accused of something?”

  “No. Set your mind at rest. I’m after information, about Eddie Hooker. He had an appointment with you at three o’clock this afternoon.”

  Lucky was coolly surprised. “He did?”

  “He said he had an appointment with you.”

  “That little tea leaf? Listen, Mr. Martineau, I don’t make appointments with street sweepings. He came leaning on my bar last night. Tried to buy me a drink. He leered a bit. You know: “What about it, baby?” He said something about borrowing a car and taking me straight out to the races when I came off duty this afternoon. I told him to follow his nose away from my bar and right out through the door.”

  “How did he take that?”

  “He never turned a hair. He said he’d be waiting round the corner in Little Sefton Street at three o’clock. I said he could wait till he had a beard that long. He said he’d wait just the same, because I’d change my mind. He went out then, grinning like a Cheshire cat. I coulda threw a bottle at him.”

  “Had he any reason to think you’d change your mind?”

  “Not that I know of. He used to live on this street, and I’ve known him since he had to reach up to steal from Woolworth’s counter. But I never had anything to do with him.”

  “Did you think it was strange he should approach you like that?”

  “I didn’t think about it at all. I get approached many a time. What is all this about Hooker? Had he something to do with that robbery at Underdown’s?”

  “He’s dead, Lucky,” said Martineau gently. “The evening papers just didn’t get it soon enough, or you’d have heard.”

  She stared. “Dead? You mean—killed?”

  He nodded. “In a motor smash. A police car was chasing him.”

  “Oh. Had he whipped something? The car?”

  “No. The car was hired. The police were after him for something else. He mentioned you before he died.”

  “Was he going to use me for some sort of alibi?”

  “We think so. You were his excuse for being there. Apart from last night, has he been in the Lacy much lately?”

  She shook her head. “I haven’t seen him.”

  “Did you see him with anyone else last night?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know who his friends are?”

  “No.”

  “Have you ever seen him with Don Starling?”

  “Can’t say I have.”

  “You know Don, don’t you? Weren’t you a bit thick with him at one time?”

  Lucky nodded. “That was before I got married. I liked Don. He said he’d reform for me. The night he said that he went off and did a break-in. That finished me with him. I can’t bear a thief.”

  “Do you ever see him nowadays?”

  “Not often. I can’t remember the last time.”

  “H’m,” said Martineau. “Well, if you do remember, will you let me know? Anything at all, about Hooker or Don Starling.”

  Lucky looked at him seriously. “You haven’t told me the whole tale,” she said. “It is that smash-and-grab raid, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” he admitted.

  “A bobby was shot, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you won’t hear anything from me, sweetheart. When they get mad enough to shoot bobbies, little Lucrece is going home to play with her dolls. Yes sir!”

  Martineau grinned at her, and picked up his hat. “You’re a waste of a good man’s time,” he said, still smiling.

  Her own smile was mischievous. “Maybe you didn’t adopt the right method of interrogation,” she replied.

  4

  The inquiries of Martineau and his subordinates revealed that at the time of the Underdown crime Don Starling had been working for a living. At least, he had been holding down a job. By means of forged references he had stepped into the humble position of assistant cellarman at the Royal Lancaster Hotel in Lacy Street, and he had worked there for three weeks. The fact that he was working at all was regarded by the police as a matter for suspicious inquiry. They found that he had slipped away from work to take part in the raid, and, no doubt according to plan, had slipped back again after the crime without his five minutes’ absence being noticed. They guessed that he had taken the job to provide himself with an alibi, and, maybe, with a hiding place for the loot. They searched the cellars of the Royal Lancaster from end to end, and back again. None of the stolen jewelry was found.

  The stolen Ford used in the raid was found in the alley where it had been abandoned. The alley gave access to Little Sefton Street, and ran through into busy Lacy Street. The back of the Royal Lancaster was in Little Sefton Street, and so was Furnisher
Steele’s shop, where Starling had once “done a job.” Remembering that, one or two detectives looked doubtfully at the furniture shop. But old Steele was known to be an honest man, and, moreover, young Devery had just started courting his granddaughter.

  From the point where the car was abandoned, all trace of the thieves was lost until Starling was picked up at his sister’s home. He resolutely continued to withhold all information, and in spite of patient and protracted inquiries, the police found no other suspect and no more evidence. They were beaten with the job.

  The stolen jewelry was valued at £8,843, a sum large enough to upset the City Police recovery average. It also worried the insurance company who had to bear the loss. The company sent an investigator. He did no better than the police.

  Since no accomplices were arrested, and none of the loot recovered, the obdurate Starling “copped it for the lot.” He was tried and remanded in custody until the Granchester Assizes. At the Assizes his trial lasted less than an hour: the direct evidence was overwhelming. Before deciding on the sentence, the judge looked at Starling long and thoughtfully, seemingly unconscious of the truculent way in which the latter stared back. There were many things for His Lordship to consider, and these included a Browning pistol, a crippled police sergeant, the sum of £8,843 in property not recovered, the prisoner’s record, and his unrepentant demeanor. At last he spoke, to inflict consecutive sentences in terms of years which the most illiterate old layabout in the public gallery could easily tot up to fourteen.

  Fourteen years. Starling took the blow without wincing. But he may have thought it was rather severe, because he bowed ironically and said: “I thank you, my lord.” This indomitable but silly gesture (by one who was normally ill-mannered) made His Lordship’s lip curl. It also brought pleased expressions to faces in the Press Box.