Murder Somewhere in This City Read online

  Starling was sitting with one foot on the girl’s chest. She had been struggling feebly, and panting and gasping. As she had not been making much noise, he had ignored her while he counted money. Now she lay still. He looked down, and saw that her eyes were open.

  “Mention no names,” he said. “The filly’s listening.” Then, uneasily, he looked again. The girl’s eyes were open in a fixed stare. The blood receded from his face, then rushed back in a red tide. He looked at the others. They had not noticed. They could not see the girl’s face, and they did not crane to look. They did not want her to see too much of them. But it did not matter how much she saw of Starling, in their opinion. He was already on the run. When he was caught, as they knew he would be sooner or late, he would take his punishment without betraying them.

  Now they were safely out of the city, but they still had to pass through the town of Boyton. They were also forced to keep to the main road to maintain their speed, and there was some danger that they might meet a police car whose crew had been warned to look out for them. They hoped fervently that it would be at least half an hour before the police learned about the Buick.

  At last they were through Boyton. They left the houses behind, and began the long climb up to the moors. Starling gnawed at his left thumbnail.

  “When are we going to dump the dame?” Clogger wanted to know.

  “The first bit of quiet road,” said Jakes.

  “We won’t take her too far,” said Clogger, almost gay now. “Don’t forget she’s got to walk back.”

  For the last ten minutes Starling had been getting used to the idea that he was riding with death. “So what?” was his attitude. The world outside the car was still rolling. The bees were still busy in the heather. The same clouds were in the sky. The girl was dead, so what?

  Of that other death which, now, would always be a probability of the near future he tried not to think. He tried to shut a door of his mind against it. When it would not be shut away, he tried to be disdainful of it. “So what? We’ve all got to die sometime.”

  He wondered how the others would react. This Clogger Roach, for instance. He was looking very pleased with himself. Now watch him grow white in a night.

  “She’s done all the walking she’ll ever do,” he said quietly.

  Clogger and Jakes turned their heads quickly, their smiles fading. They stared. Then Jakes pulled Starling’s knee aside and looked down at the girl’s face.

  “Christ!” he said unhappily. “She’s croaked.”

  Starling nodded. “Some time ago,” he said.

  “You bloody fool,” said Jakes, his voice rising with panic.

  “Hell fire!” Clogger whispered, and he had indeed turned pale. “You didn’t have to do that, did you?”

  Laurie Lovett was silent. He kept his eyes on the road as if nothing had happened. But a muscle of his jaw had started to twitch.

  The same fear was upon them all. They were reminded of a man they all knew by sight. He kept a pub in Hollinwood. The name of the pub was “Help the Poor Straggler.” The man’s name was Albert Pierrepoint. He was the public hangman.

  “Thank God, I never laid a hand on her,” said Clogger fervently.

  Lovett was taking a bend at high speed. He did not look at Clogger, but from the corner of his mouth he said: “You lent Don your knobkerrie, remember?’

  “Murder. We’re all in it,” Jakes mumbled.

  “I think you’d better pull yourselves together,” said Starling somberly. “You thought of getting away with the robbery, didn’t you? Why not this job as well? It’s one witness less, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, but murder…” said Jakes. “You know how they are with that. They’ll never give up.”

  “That may be,” said Lovett. “But they’ll never know it’s us if we behave right in our heads.”

  “Oh, give over,” Starling growled. “We’re not here to cheer him up.” He looked back through the rear window of the car. The road was deserted. “This’ll do,” he said. “Pull up, Laurie, and well get rid of her.”

  The car stopped. Starling reached over and opened the door beside Jakes. He pointed. “Drop her behind that hummock,” he said.

  “Not me!” was the objection.

  “Why not you? You did her in.”

  Starling moved, and Jakes’s hand went to his razor pocket. But Starling had produced a big automatic pistol. His companions stared at it.

  “All right, I did her in,” he said. “And I can do you in. One murder or two, what’s the difference?”

  “Where did you get that?” Clogger asked, in astonishment.

  Starling allowed himself a faint grin. He had found the pistol fully loaded in a drawer in the Fentons’ bedroom. No doubt it was a memento of World War II, highly prized by Steel Erector Fenton. Well, he was returning home today. If she had discovered the theft of the gun, Mrs. Fenton would be in a panic.

  “Never mind where I got it,” he said. “I’m a dangerous gunman, didn’t you know? Lord Justice D’Arcy said so when he sent me down for fourteen. Now then, we’re wasting time. Get this thing out of my sight!”

  Jakes knew Starling very well. He knew that Lord Justice D’Arcy had not exaggerated. Watching the pistol, he stepped backward out of the car. Grunting with effort, he pulled the body from the car and carried it over the rough ground. The slashed bag dangled from the chain attached to the slender wrist.

  At that moment another car appeared on the crest of the eastward slope. It approached rapidly.

  Jakes dropped the body behind the hillock. He ran back to the Buick and scrambled in as it began to move. “What do we do with this feller?” Clogger was asking in an agitated voice.

  Apparently nobody knew what to do, nor was there time to decide. Starling said: “Cover your faces,” and hands with outspread fingers were held up to mask identity. As the strange car drew near, Lovett made the Buick swerve toward it. But he dared not risk a crash, and it was only a halfhearted attempt to force the other car off the road. The other driver sounded his horn and held his course, and went on toward Granchester.

  “Think he saw me carrying the girl?” Jakes wanted to know.

  “Very likely,” said Clogger gloomily. “He’ll stop at the first phone.”

  “It makes no difference,” said Starling. “We’ve got to keep moving fast, that’s all. We’ve only a mile or two to go, then we’re through with this car. Here, stow this money in your pockets…”

  10

  At fifteen minutes past seven that evening, Furnisher Steele answered the telephone. “Hello, hello,” he said, which is not the proper way to answer a phone call.

  “Hello yourself,” said a man’s voice. “I want Furnisher Steele.”

  “Speaking.”

  “You may remember me, I’m Don Starling. You once got me sent down for a stretch.”

  The old man did not like Starling’s tone. Also, he believed in looking squarely at men and affairs. “I got you nothing,” he replied. “You got yourself sent down.”

  “I’ve got you in my book, anyway; but I’m going to give you a chance to put yourself right.”

  “I’m right as I am,” said Furnisher. “To hell with you.”

  “You won’t be so right when I’ve done with you, unless you do what I want. I don’t mind having an old man bashed, you know. You’d better be sensible.”

  “I’ll be sensible. There’s a young man comes here who’s a detective. I’ll tell him about you.”

  “I don’t think you will. I haven’t finished yet. What about that deaf-and-dumb kid of yours? She’s lovely. She’s worth it. I’ve a couple of friends just itching to get her down, and she won’t be able to scream. Better do what I want. It’s only a small thing. It won’t take you five minutes.”

  Furnisher had not heard the last few words. The obscene suggestion of the main statement astounded and horrified him. He could scarcely believe that he had heard it. For some little time he could not answer, but when he did speak he had none o
f an old man’s bluster. There was a cold fury and firm resolve in his voice.

  “Listen, Don Starling,” he said, reverting to his native dialect. “Anybody round ’ere ’ull tell thee I’m a man o’ my word. I ’ave a gun, an’ I’m not too old to use it. If thee or thy pals comes anywheer near my gran-child BY GOD I’LL SHOOT YER! I’ll be right close beside ’er till tha’s bin caught, an’ that won’t be long.”

  There was a long silence, and Furnisher wondered if the other man had rung off and failed to hear his words. But Starling answered at last, and his tone had changed.

  “So you won’t frighten, old man,” he said. “I like a fellow with some guts. Since you’re a man of your word, I’ll make a bargain with you. Say nothing to anybody about this phone call, and I’ll leave you and the girl alone. What about it?”

  Furnisher thought about that. Stalling was a vicious man and a resourceful man. Look how he was still eluding the police! It was no use asking for trouble, and the information wouldn’t be a great deal of use to Devery.

  “All right,” he said. “It’s a bargain. I’ll say nowt. I’ll keep my word, and I’ll have my gun handy in case you don’t keep yours.”

  “Fair enough,” said Starling, and rung off. Later, Furnisher was plagued with curiosity. What had Starling wanted him to do? Now he would never know. “Aay dear,” he sighed. “I talk too much.”

  11

  At half past seven the manager of the Lacy Arms answered his telephone. “Central, double three double five,” he said efficiently.

  He heard a curiously hollow voice: “Is that the Lacy Arms? Sorry to bother you on Saturday night, but I’d like to speak to one of your barmaids, Mrs. Lusk. It’s rather important.”

  “Who’s that speaking?” the manager demanded.

  “This is Mr. Lusk, her ex-husband. On urgent family business.”

  “Oh, all right,” said the manager. “I’ll get her.”

  “That article!” said Lucky Lusk, when she was informed of the call. “I haven’t heard of him for three years. I know what his urgent business’ll be. He’s hard up!”

  “Shall I tell him you’re too busy?” the manager suggested.

  “No, I’d better speak to him,” she said, and in spite of her harsh words she approached the telephone with feelings of curiosity and mild anxiety. “Hello, Chris, you there?” she asked.

  She heard a chuckle, and a voice she knew. “Mention no names, honey, because this is Don, your dream man.”

  She was taken aback. “Wha-what do you want?” she stammered.

  “First of all I want to tell you I’m a desperate man. Old friends who won’t help me in my hour of need will get carved up. I mean carved up. Around the face and other important parts, you know.”

  As plainly as if he were there she could see Starling’s curiously hot brown eyes, and the slight sneer which would be on his face when he talked in that manner. He was like some corner boy acting tough. Except that he was tough.

  But she had recovered her poise. “You’ve been drinking,” she said.

  “Not a drop.” The tone changed slightly. “I mean what I say. I want you to do me a very small service, and then keep quiet. You know Gus Hawkins?”

  She did. And she had also read the evening paper.

  He accurately guessed her thoughts. “Oh no,” he said convincingly. “Don’t mix me up with a murder. I have enough to do keeping away from the coppers as it is. I’m on the run, Lucky.”

  “A man like Gus Hawkins wouldn’t have anything to do with the likes of you,” she said. “What do you want with him?”

  “He can help me. He won’t be feeling so good about things, but he can still help me. I don’t want to go to his house till I know he’s at home, and just now I think he might be in the Stag’s Head, celebrating the bad day he’s had. I daren’t go there myself, but it’s only three minutes’ walk for you. If you’ll go and look, you’ll save me a journey.”

  She was doubtful. It was all rather pat, rather specious.

  “I can’t leave here on a Saturday night,” she said.

  “I meant what I said about being desperate,” he reminded her. “I’m not going to argue with you. If you won’t do it for old times’ sake you’ll do it to save your bonny face. Now go on, you bitch, and do as I say! I’ll ring again in eight minutes. When you get back from the Stag you wait right there by the phone, so’s I don’t have to talk to your boss again. Understand?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Then get on with it!” he snarled, and rang off. Almost blind with rage, she went back to the bar. The pig, the dirty pig, to talk to her like that! She hoped the police would catch him and flog him! She had half a mind to go back and dial Central one-two-one-two, and tell Martineau.

  In the bar, the manager looked at her with concern. “Bad news?” he asked.

  “I’ve got to slip out for five minutes, Mr. Rose,” she said. “I won’t be longer than that.” For in spite of her anger she was afraid. Don Starling had threatened to slash her face. She did not think he would do it, but he might do it. He really was desperate: she knew that. He had not spoken like the Don Starling she used to know.

  The Starling of two years ago would have tried normal persuasion first. He would not have spoken roughly until she had definitely refused to help him. But today he had started with a threat, even though it was such a small favor that he asked. A ridiculous thing, really. Go along the street on a trivial errand, or I’ll disfigure you. The man had lost all sense of proportion.

  He distrusted everybody, that was it. He wanted to frighten everybody so that they wouldn’t dare to tell the police. Well, he’d frightened her, all right. She wasn’t going to tell. She had troubles enough.

  Lucky’s thoughts carried her along Lacy Street. Daylight was just beginning to fade, and the street with its lights, its colored signs and its shop windows glowed up into the darkening sky. The roadway crawled with traffic. The sidewalks were crowded with Saturday night strollers, and she threaded and dodged through them automatically. A policeman standing on a corner nodded and spoke to her. A cinema doorman, looking slightly seedy in a brilliant uniform as cinema doormen often do, stopped shouting the price of seats to say: “Hello, Lucky. Thirsty work. I could do a beer right now.” She smiled and answered, without listening to his words or knowing what she had said to him. She felt sick and worried. Suppose something went wrong, and Don Starling thought it was her fault?

  She went into the Stag’s Head, looked around, and came out. And it almost seemed as if Starling had been watching her movements, because the Lacy Arms telephone rang as soon as she got back to it.

  “Well?” Starling asked.

  “He’s in the grill, just sitting down to a meal,” she said.

  “You’re sure of that?”

  “Well, he’s eating cantaloupe, and all the cutlery is still on the table. So I suppose he’s just starting.”

  “No champagne?”

  “I never saw any.”

  “Is he alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thanks, Lucky. Sorry I had to get rough with you. I was on edge, I guess. No hard feelings?”

  “You keep your distance in future, that’s all,” she said. “I’m not your woman, and I never was. Just keep away from me, that’s all I want.”

  Starling laughed. “Bye-bye,” he said, and rang off.

  12

  Ten minutes after he had stepped out of the telephone box, Starling walked boldly up the little drive of Gus Hawkins’ house. He had been there many times before. He went round the house, and smiled when he found that the back door was unlocked. He entered quietly, and looked around, and listened. He heard somebody moving upstairs. “She’s getting ready to go out,” he decided.

  He waited near the foot of the stairs. There was an evening paper on the hall table. It looked as if it had not been opened. He did not touch it: he had already seen a copy.

  Chloe Hawkins came running down the stairs, in a hurry, evidently. H
er reaction, when she saw him, was normal in the circumstances: a little startled shriek, and the look of consternation to which the intruder was becoming accustomed.

  He smiled. “Where are you off to?” he asked. “My, you look nice!”

  “Don,” she faltered. “Why did you come here?”

  “To see you, of course. Don’t you remember? We’re—friends.”

  “But the police are after you. And suppose Gus comes home?”

  “I don’t think he’ll come yet, Chloe. He’s just sitting down to a meal at the Stag’s Head.”

  “Oh. But you can’t stay, Don. It—it isn’t fair to me. What do you want? Money? I haven’t much.”

  He put one arm around her tiny waist and squeezed her, lifting her onto her toes. “I don’t want money,” he said. “At the moment I want you. I’ve been in a monastery for the last two years, you know.”

  “Oh. And then will you go?” she asked, slightly relieved.

  “What is this? Am I a leper or something?” he demanded with assumed irritation. “Everywhere I go, people want me to keep going.”

  “Well, the police are seeking you everywhere. It’s in all the papers. You won’t stay long will you?”

  “Not more than a fortnight. And now, how about something to eat, my dear? Just a snack: I don’t expect you to cook anything.”

  He had gone all through the eventful day, since morning, without a wash. He had not touched Cicely Wainwright after she had so inconveniently died, but nevertheless he could not eat until he had cleansed his hands. He had a wash in the kitchen, so that he could keep an eye on Chloe. Then he drew a chair to the kitchen table and had a factory-made pork pie with pickles, followed by two cups of tea. Chloe watched him uneasily, smoking all the time. She noticed that his hands were stained green, just as her husband’s hand had been at breakfast that morning. She was too worried by his presence to make any comment about the stain.

  Starling also noticed the stain, and wondered about it. Something on Chloe’s towel? He could not see that it was important, and he did not speak about it.