Murder Somewhere in This City Page 7

  Thinking about it, he had a substantial meal in a transport workers’ café, and then he did not want any more drink. What now? The restful gloom of a cinema? A lovely day like this? Still undecided, he wandered back to the park.

  He did not return to his original seat. He went to the other end of the park, to a quiet corner with a bench which had its back to the wall. A woman was sitting there, and he would have passed on, but she looked up and smiled. He sat down on the bench; not too near to the woman, not too far away for friendliness.

  “Nice day,” he said very casually, so that he did not risk a snub.

  “Ooh, it’s lovely, isn’t it?” she replied, in the accent of the working millions of Granchester and district. Her tone and manner put him immediately at ease.

  He knew just how to impress her. Bringing out his cigarettes, he asked: “Do you mind if I pollute the air with tobacco smoke?” His assumed accent was rich and rounded enough to be described as fruity. Privately, he thought of it as “Oxford and Cambridge.”

  “I don’t mind at all,” she said. “I do like to see a man enjoying his cig.”

  “How about you? Will you try one?”

  She hesitated. “Well, I don’t smoke much. An’ not out o’ doors…”

  “Do have one. There’s nobody to see you.”

  She accepted a cigarette and a light. She had already studied him as he approached, and now she puffed daintily at her Gold Flake and gave him a chance to look at her. A Hausfrau, he thought. Typical. About thirty-eight years old. Not bad looking, not badly dressed. Not a bad figure, either. A bit hippy, but not bad. “She’ll do to be going on with,” he decided.

  They talked. Her name was Dora Fenton. She had a completely ordinary mind. She was childless, and her husband was a steel erector. He was usually away during the week. He was away this week on a job at Morecambe. He would work overtime on Saturday, and get home in time to spend Saturday evening with his friends. Not with his wife who had been alone all week, mark you, but with his friends at the club.

  “Really, you couldn’t be blamed if you looked around for a bit of romance,” he said with sympathy.

  “No, I couldn’t,” she eagerly agreed. “I’ve thought of it many a time.”

  She was politely curious about him. He had a good story to tell. His name was Danby Simpson. Mr. Danby Simpson. He was unmarried and unattached. (That pleased Mrs. Fenton.) He was a wine merchant’s representative, and he traveled the country calling on big hotels and restaurants. “Only the very best places,” he said with dignity. “Ours is a very old firm: Ascot, Wetherby and Company. We wouldn’t dream of having anyone on the staff who wasn’t a public school man.”

  “Are you a public school man, then?” she asked, with respect.

  He coughed. “Winchester,” he said modestly. “Yes, I am an Old Wykehamist.”

  She was impressed. “Where are you stopping?” she asked.

  “I always stay at the Royal Lancaster,” he said. “Tommy Sullivan, the manager, is an old acquaintance of mine. As a matter of fact, I’ve had lunch with him. I had no business this afternoon, so I thought I’d take a walk down this way. I know the town fairly well. Been here many times.”

  He aired his superficial knowledge of wine for her benefit. She knew nothing about wine, so he was in no danger of making a mistake.

  In a little while she said that it was hot in the sun, but such a shame to go indoors.

  “How about a sojourn in a nearby hostelry?” he suggested. “A little wine, perhaps? A little sherry? An Amontillado or a dry Tio Pepe?”

  She was willing. They went for a drink. He came to the conclusion that she was a fool, but she enjoyed herself tremendously. At three o’clock, closing time, the sparkle of adventure was in her eye.

  “Where now?” he asked. “Must we part so soon?”

  “It seems a shame,” she said.

  “I could take you somewhere for afternoon tea,” he said, “but I get so weary of hotels and restaurants. I long sometimes for a bit of home comfort.”

  The gin and Cointreau in two five-shilling White Ladies had quickened her. She did not miss the innuendo. She was both relieved and excited when she made her decision.

  “Why not ’ave a cup o’ tea at my ’ouse?” she suggested.

  “Oh, I’d love to,” he replied. “But… won’t the neighbors talk?”

  “They won’t see you,” she replied, so quickly that he knew she had been arranging the matter in her mind. “Our ’ouses ’ave ’igh backyard walls. You stroll round to the back an’ keep close to the wall; I’ll go the front way an’ let you in.”

  “That’s an excellent idea,” he said, and reached under the table. A small hot hand met his halfway, and squeezed it. He thought that the woman’s excitement made her quite pretty. Not bad at all.

  It was indeed an excellent idea. It gave him the best sort of cover for at least several hours, and perhaps for the night.

  8

  The following day, by arrangement, Starling met a man called Laurie Lovett in a crowded department store. Lovett was late, so Starling made one or two small purchases. Neatly wrapped in the store’s distinctive wrapping paper, the purchases were intended to remove suspicion from the roving eyes of store detectives. Starling hoped that he looked like a man who was waiting for his wife.

  When Lovett arrived, he quietly called him a bad name. Lovett took no notice of the name. He was a broad, strong man with a thin, white face and a hard, surly stare. His mouth was a tautly held slash with lips almost as pale as his skin. He looked around all the time he was talking, and he talked with an odd shifty manner.

  “What’s he say?” Starling demanded.

  “He was scared at first. He’s still scared, if it comes to that. But I said you being in it made it all the safer, ’cause you’d never soften for the cops. I said you’d proved that by taking all the humpy for the Underdown job. Anyway, he’s in. He says he’ll give us the office if he can. He can do it easy: I told him so. If there’s a worth-while amount of cash to go to the bank, he can wait till it’s nearly ready for moving, then stand near the window for a second or two and scratch the back of his head with his right hand. He’s such a scruffy old geezer nobody’ll think anything of it. It’ll be easy.”

  “Okay. Now he’s in, tell him he knows what he’ll get if he drops a wrong word. If he spills anything, he’s had it. Are your cabs all right?”

  “Sure. I had to turn down a good Doncaster job. Doug Savage.”

  “That loafhead! Does he still fancy himself as a big racing man?”

  “He sure does. Now the old man has cocked his toe he’s running the Prodigal Son for the old lady. You’d think he was manager of the Royal Lancs, no less.”

  “He’ll lose his mother her pub if she don’t watch it. How’s Gordon?”

  Lovett stared at a revolvable stand of brilliant ties. He seemed to be intent on selecting one.

  “The kid’s game,” he said seriously. “Don’t worry about him. I want him to be in the clear if owt happens, though.”

  Starling looked at him. “He can’t help but be in the clear if he keeps his trap shut. Anyway, you know I won’t drop him into anything, whatever the others do.”

  Lovett nodded, looking slightly worried. Then he said: “Where you hiding, Don?”

  The other man smiled. “Oh, here and there. Keep moving, that’s my motto.”

  “You don’t give much away, do you? When are we going to share out the sparklers? You been cagey about them. Where are they?”

  “I told you where. In the cellar. I can’t tell you more, because the stuff’s so well hid there’s nobody but me can find it. Do you think the cops haven’t searched that place time and again? There’s nobody gets that without me. You’ll get your share, but it was me got the fourteen years. Remember?”

  “That’s true enough, Don. And you never gave your pals away.”

  “And never will. So it’s all fixed then. What about this new bloke—what do you call him?—
Clogger? Sure he’s all right?”

  “He’s right enough.”

  “And Lolly, is he ready?”

  “As ready as he ever will be. Eigh up! This chap coming off the escalator knows me. Let me be away. Cheerio.”

  “Cheerio,” said Starling, and he also turned away, walking erect and keen-eyed. His stiff, sturdy, but by no means short figure moved with something of a terrier’s bounce.

  9

  Starling slept that night in Boyton, in the frowzy bed of an old bachelor night watchman whom he had known from childhood. In the morning he moved out at his usual time, between eight and nine, though the streets—except those in the center of the town—were not so crowded because it was Saturday.

  Not only was it Saturday, it was St. Leger day, and a small percentage of the population were setting off to see the races at Doncaster. It was a royal occasion: the Queen would be there. Well, today Don Starling could also go to the races. Moreover, if no mistake were made this morning, he would have some money to put on the horses. The amount depended on how much Gus Hawkins sent to the bank.

  The next two hours were the most trying for Starling since his escape from Pontfield. He had to make his way to a quiet yard behind a row of shops in Highfield. A greengrocer kept one of the shops, and he garaged his small van in the yard. He used the van very early in the morning to bring his supplies from the wholesale market. Afterward, while he was busy in his shop, he left the van standing in the open garage in the yard. In all probability he would not look at the van again until evening, and perhaps then only when he locked up the garage.

  Starling had a rendezvous at the van, at nine forty-five. He was there at nine-thirty, reconnoitering cautiously. Everything was as he had been told it would be. He chose his moment, and slipped into the garage. He entered the van and sat in the back of it, in darkness which smelled of apples, celery and cut flowers. To ease the tension he broke one of his own rules for concealment: he smoked a cigarette, holding it cupped in his hand.

  At nine-fifty Lolly Jakes arrived. Starling had not seen him for two years. Lolly slipped casually into the driving seat of the van, then he half turned his head and said softly: “That you, Don?”

  “Yeh. All in order?”

  “Sure. The greengrocer’s as busy as hell. Coining money. We shall have finished with this thing before he knows it’s gone.”

  “You’re late.”

  “Plenty of time,” said Lolly comfortably. “The banks don’t open till ten. We’ll be there. We’ll collect too. There should be plenty. It was a proper day out for the bookies yesterday. All the favorites stopped to piss.”

  Lolly had a broad face, with a very small hooked nose and dull, prominent eyes. He had meaty shoulders, and the back of his neck was like a section of Irish bacon. He was incurably lazy, but sudden, treacherous and dangerous in the use of razor and knuckleduster. For their purposes, both Starling and Lovett considered him to be reliable. The local knowledge required to “borrow” a van without trouble had been his initial contribution to the operation which was beginning.

  Lolly drove the van into town and parked it at the junction of Higgitt’s Passage and Back Lacy Street. He remained in the driving seat, and Starling continued to lurk in the back. From the small rear window the fugitive could see the Prodigal Son, the little pub which Doug Savage managed for his mother. The door was closed, and the place seemed to have a sly, secretive air. Whatever the occupants saw, they would not tell the police. Doug Savage was a loudmouth, but not when the constabulary were within hearing. Starling dismissed the Prodigal Son from his mind.

  The forty minutes’ wait was a bad time for him. It seemed that the signal for action would never come. And all the time he was in danger, here in the center of the city, where he had not dared to venture since his escape from prison. Here were more policemen to the acre than anywhere else in the North of England, and they all knew Don Starling.

  The heart of a great provincial city is a small place, and its denizens know each other. It is the center of circulation, and the anonymous flowing crowds are its life blood. But among the swarming thousands certain people are, in a manner of speaking, stationary. A few hundred barmaids, publicans, waitresses, caretakers, doormen, bank messengers, newsboys, barrow boys, businessmen, postmen, taxi drivers, shopkeepers, bookies’ runners, spivs, layabouts, thieves, whoremongers, prostitutes and policemen know each other by contact, by name, or by sight. It was so in Granchester, and Don Starling was aware of it. He had spent his time and his money in the heart of the city, and now he dared show himself but briefly, at the moment of action.

  While he waited, he naturally wondered what his accomplices were doing. What about Clogger Roach, whom he had never seen? And Peter Purchas, that weak and timorous man? All he had to do was scratch his head, and no doubt his hand would tremble when he did it.

  The signal would mean that a worth-while sum of money would soon be on its way from Gus Hawkins’ office to the bank. If Gus had banked his race money and winnings last night, there would be another simple signal to indicate that money would be taken from the bank. This errand had been accomplished many hundreds of times before by a girl cashier and a man—or a boy. There had never been any sort of interference. No trouble would be expected this morning.

  At last it became evident that Purchas had given the signal. A Buick car reversed into the archway at the end of the back street, and Lolly Jakes said: “Here’s Laurie.” And a minute later Clogger Roach sauntered past the rear of the van.

  Clogger was the lookout. He had been “given the office” by Purchas. He was comparatively a stranger in town, but Laurie Lovett had known him a long time, and he guaranteed him. Through the van window Starling studied the wiry figure and the narrow head. Clogger turned to look back, and revealed the dark, fanatical face of one who would always be passionately sure of his rights in the world, and equally passionate in denying his obligations. An envious, ill-humored man. Starling disliked him on sight.

  Then there was no time to study character. Clogger was walking back briskly, just as if he were going somewhere. It had been arranged that he would pass the girl and her escort when they were close to the van. The moment had come. Starling pushed open the door of the van. Jakes got out of the driving seat. Laurie Lovett reversed the Buick along the back street.

  The youth and the girl with the money were there, just passing the van. No one else was in sight.

  The lad was plucky. He said: “Run for it, Ciss,” and squared up to Jakes and Starling. But Clogger was moving silently behind him. He swung a loaded cosh at the full length of his arm and felled the boy. It was an unnecessarily hard blow. He swung at the girl, too, but she was away, screaming as she ran.

  In two strides Starling caught her. Terrified, she screamed louder. He struck hard with his fist at her exposed throat, and the scream ended abruptly. Jake came up, and the two men dragged her to the Buick at a run. Clogger was holding a rear door open. They threw her into the car, and tumbled in after her. Clogger got into the front seat beside the driver, and the car sped along the back street, through the archway, and into the open street

  The girl lay knees-up on the floor of the car and Starling crouched over her. She was evidently hysterical, because she was screaming again, a thick, painful scream. The noise alarmed everybody in the car. “Shut her up!” Clogger snarled. Starling knelt heavily on her chest. He put his left hand over her mouth and nostrils and hammered savagely at her throat and jaw. The scream became a muffled moan. “Here, stroke her with this,” said Clogger. Starling struck once with the cosh foreshortened. But the car was swinging round a corner and, instead of the skull, the bruised, tender throat received the blow. The girl went limp, and her eyes closed.

  Starling and Clogger had no more time for her. They were watching Lolly Jakes, who had started work with a razor on the locked moneybag which was chained to the girl’s wrist. “It’ll ruin the edge,” he grumbled, as the keen blade sheared through tough leather. Soon he opene
d the ruined bag, and shook bundles of notes onto the seat between himself and Starling. “Christ, there’s a fortune here!” he exclaimed.

  “There sure is,” said Starling. “This is a better job than the other one. Keep ’er rolling, driver. We don’t want to lose this little lot.”

  Laurie Lovett was following a prearranged route, selecting long streets which ran roughly parallel to a main road, avoiding traffic lights and point-duty policemen. He was getting along fast. He had fifteen miles to go, and he meant to cover the distance before the police knew what land of a car to look for.

  Starling had been counting money. “Bundles of a hundred,” he announced, and Jakes said: “Thirty bundles. Then there’s these fivers.”

  “Two hundred fivers,” said Starling.

  “Hell’s bells! There’s four thousand nicker here!” cried Jakes, after a little sum in the quick mental arithmetic of the inveterate follower of racing.

  In the front seat, Clogger rubbed his hands and chortled. “Nearly a thousand apiece, when we’ve paid out the chicken-feed,” he said.

  “Nine hundred apiece,” Starling amended. “And two hundred apiece for the old un and the young un.”

  “The kid?” Clogger objected. “But he’s only—”

  Starling held up his hand. “He’s in it,” he said. “We’ve got to keep him happy.”

  “Don’t get me wrong,” said Clogger, after a quick glance at Laurie Lovett. “I don’t want to do anybody out of his share. I’m just thinking he might start flashing his wad and get noticed.”

  “He won’t,” said Laurie, with his eyes on the road. “I’ll see he behaves.”