Murder Somewhere in This City Page 9

  After eating, he watched her remove the evidence of the meal. As she was passing near to him he caught her hand. He rose and embraced her. He fondled her and became excited. In a little while, though she still wished that he would go away, she responded to his urgency. When he suggested that they should go to her bedroom, she was not unwilling.

  They went upstairs together. On the broad landing at the head of the stairs he stopped. He looked up at the ceiling.

  “Is the old gadget still working?” he asked.

  “Of course,” she replied, surprised that he could remember the loft ladder at such a moment.

  “Is it used much?”

  “Nobody’s been up there for months.”

  “Do you remember the time I had to hide up there when Gus came home too soon? I stuck it twelve hours for your sweet sake.”

  She smiled faintly. “It was awful. All the time I was scared you’d make a noise.”

  “It could happen again,” he said as they went into the bedroom.

  Twenty minutes later, he walked out onto the landing and again looked at the ceiling, at the part where there appeared to be a long trapdoor. He went to the stairhead window, where the cords which controlled the loft ladder were hidden by a draw-on curtain. He found the cords, and operated the nicely counterbalanced mechanism. The trapdoor dropped open gently and noiselessly. He reached up and pulled at the stepladder which was revealed. It slid down smoothly until one end of it was resting on the landing.

  Chloe came out of the bedroom and saw that he had let down the loft ladder. “What have you done that for?” she demanded in alarm.

  “I’ve got to sleep somewhere tonight,” he said. “Your attic will do me nicely.”

  She stared at him in dismay.

  “Don’t worry, I shall only stay one night,” he said. “Keep moving, that’s me. Mr. Bloody Martineau won’t see me till I want him to see me.”

  She did not speak. He grinned at her.

  “I believe I noticed an old chamber pot among the family heirlooms stored up aloft,” he said. “You know, the one with pink roses on it. So all I need is a couple of blankets and a jug of water. Go get ’em.”

  “You can’t stay here, Don,” she whimpered.

  “Sure I can,” he said confidently. “I’ll be as quiet as a mouse, and I don’t snore. I’ll clear off tomorrow as soon as Gus has gone out, and you won’t have a thing to worry about. Now go get my blankets. I am about to retire.”

  She brought blankets and a jug of water. He took them from her. “And so to bed,” he said lightly. “Cheer up, Chloe. Don’t worry about me. Go out and enjoy yourself.”

  She shook her head. “I’m not going out. I daren’t, now.”

  “Please yourself,” he said. Then he paused with one foot on the bottom step. “Don’t entertain any notion of calling the coppers,” he warned her. “If I’m caught here, Gus will get to know about the good times you’ve had with me. And not only me, a few more fellows as well. Doug Savage for one. So keep your cute little mouth buttoned up. Good night, sweetheart. Pull the stairs up after me.”

  13

  It was nearly ten o’clock when Gus arrived home. There were lights in the house. When he saw that Chloe was waiting he felt somewhat repentant, wishing that he had not stayed for a meal at the Stag’s Head. He apologized as he embraced her.

  “That’s all right,” she replied. “Nobody can blame a man if he stays for the odd drink after a hard day.”

  But she could not quite meet his glance, and he wondered if she were hiding resentment. Then he saw the evening paper, unopened, on the hall table.

  “Haven’t you looked at the paper?” he asked. “Haven’t you heard the news?”

  “No. What news?” she queried, rather absently he thought. He told her. She seemed to stop breathing when she heard the word “murder.” She held a button of his coat, and looked at it as she listened.

  “Oh dear, that’s dreadful,” she said when she had heard it all. “Dreadful!” she repeated.

  He noticed that she was very pale. “Now don’t get upset,” he said kindly. “The four thousand is a smack, but I can stand it. It’s Cicely and the boy I’m bothered about.”

  “Of course,” she said quickly. “How is Colin?”

  “He’s got a bad concussion, but the doctor says he’ll be all right. I hope so. You can never tell with a bang on the head.”

  Her attention seemed to be straying. Then she became aware of his scrutiny, and she said: “I do hope he’ll get better, darling. Shall I make some supper?”

  “Not for me, thanks. I’ve just had a meal.”

  “I’ll make a drink of coffee,” she said, and hurried away to the kitchen. He frowned after her, observing uneasiness in her; uneasiness which was additional to the shocked concern which he had expected. It was as if the murder of Cicely had aroused in her some fear for herself. He shook his head. Unpredictable creatures, women.

  After drinking his coffee, he felt extraordinarily drowsy. He was immediately suspicious, because he was never sleepy before midnight. “Did you put one of your sleeping pills in my coffee?” he demanded with heavy-eyed sharpness.

  “No,” she denied.

  “You have!” he insisted. “I can tell. Damn it. I’m not so worried about Cicely that I have to be put to sleep.”

  She looked down at her hands, and the expression on her small face was hidden by fair hair and long dark eyelashes. He considered her, and reflected that the sleeping tablets showed practical sympathy, at any rate.

  “Never mind,” he said. “Let’s go to bed.”

  14

  That was Saturday, St. Leger day. The day Granchester was shocked by the murder of Cicely Wainwright. The day her murderers’ guilty hands were stained green instead of red. The day Furnisher Steele was made to worry about his grandchild and Lucky Lusk about her face. The day Martineau, for the first time, actually wished that his wife Julia would leave him.

  PART III Martineau

  1

  The stolen Buick used in the Cicely Wainwright murder was not found abandoned on the same day. This was rather a surprise for Martineau, and on Sunday morning, when the car was still missing, he began to entertain a cautious hope that it had been hidden in some place which, when found, would provide a clue to the identity of at least one of the felons.

  The search for the Buick was an issue second only in importance to the search for green fingers. Martineau phoned Detective Inspector Vanbrugh of the County Police and talked the matter over with him.

  “I’m strictly ethical today,” he said finally. “I’d like to make some inquiries in the County area, and I’d welcome the cooperation of one of your officers.”

  “Will I do?” asked Vanbrugh.

  “Thanks very much,” said Martineau. “I’ve got a car. I’ll pick you up in five minutes.”

  In a Jaguar, with Devery driving, Martineau and Vanbrugh took the road to Boyton and the moors.

  “Have you any particular place in mind?” the County man wanted to know.

  “No,” said Martineau. “I want to follow the road past the place where we found the girl, and see what there is.”

  “I’ll tell you what there is. Miles and miles of damn all. Except the Moorcock.”

  “There’ll be a few isolated farms, I suppose.”

  “Just a few. And some even more isolated reservoir keepers’ cottages. It won’t take us long to visit the lot, if the farm roads are good enough for this luxury wagon of yours.”

  “I’ve heard about the Moorcock. Maybe we can call there.”

  “Sure we’ll call,” said Vanbrugh. “Our men have been there, of course, but it won’t hurt the Moorcock people to have another visit.”

  Soon the car was climbing toward the place where Cicely Wainwright’s body had been found. It was a fine morning, but there was a strong cool wind blowing across the hills. Traffic was sparse. In four miles the men in the police car saw only three cars, one bus, and two taxicabs. The cabs, and tw
o of the cars, were packed with men, and the men were not of a type which would normally be seen riding in taxis. Vanbrugh frowned when he saw them.

  “They’re going the wrong way,” he said. “There’s no place for a gaming school nearer the city than this.”

  “The schools move around, don’t they?” Martineau remarked. “A different place every Sunday.”

  “They profane the Sabbath in a number of places, and they use them on an irregular rotary system. They don’t often use the same place twice running.”

  “Who decides?”

  “The organizer. A man called Broadhead, we think. He gets a small commission for keeping the ring and paying the crows. He’s supposed to keep out welshers and twisters, too, but I imagine that’s impossible.”

  As a City policeman, Martineau had no experience of big open-air gambling schools. But, among policemen, he had heard some talk of them. Now he wanted to hear more.

  “Big money changes hands, doesn’t it?” he asked.

  Vanbrugh explained that in the game where a man spun two halfpennies and tried to make them both alight “heads” upward on the ground, hundreds of pounds were often wagered on one throw of the coins. As in the more socially elevated game of Baccarat, winning players were inclined to leave both stakes and winnings in the ring, “doubling up” again and again in the hope of achieving the well-nigh impossible, a run of “heads” which would win all the available money of fifty or sixty gamblers in the ring. Starting with a one-pound stake and leaving all winnings on the ground, players had been known to “head ’em” eleven consecutive times in their efforts to “skin the ring.” And not all these nervy players were eventual losers. More than two thousand pounds lying in the ring was sometimes too much for the collective gambling spirit of the school, and the challenge would be only partly met. When the nervy one finally “tailed ’em,” he might not lose more than a quarter of his winnings.

  “What about the sharps who can palm the coins and throw with two-headed ones?” Martineau queried.

  “All that is taken care of,” Vanbrugh replied. “There’s a paid man called a putter-on. The man who’s making the toss holds two fingers out, close together, and the putter-on lays the coins on his fingers. After that, he simply throws them up. They spin together in the air, and they usually land showing two heads or two tails. If there’s one head and one tail, it’s a void throw.”

  “How often do you raid a tossing school?”

  “Very seldom,” said Vanbrugh. “You need a lot of men for that. Besides, those types will gamble somewhere, so they might as well be up on the moors out of harm’s way. We don’t bother much unless a school gets too big, or unless we get complaints of disorder and annoyance to people walking on the moors.” He pointed to some rising ground on the left of the road. “There’s a little disused quarry up there. It’s one of their places. It’s like all the others, very hard to approach without being spotted by the crows. There’s usually four or five of ’em, spread out in a wide circle. They pick the high places where they can see all around and they have field glasses.”

  “You’d need fifty men to surround the place and close in,” said Martineau.

  “Yes, and you’ve also got to prove that they were gambling,” the County man agreed. “More trouble than what the job is worth.”

  The road became level at the height of the moor, and Martineau saw a little inn standing lonely on the edge of a desolate plateau.

  “That’s the Moorcock,” said Vanbrugh, “and I see they’ve got customers.” He indicated three taxis and one old car which stood beside the inn.

  Devery stopped the car, and the three men alighted and gazed around.

  “It’ll be a bit bleak in winter,” Martineau commented. He looked at a narrow, sandy moorland road which crossed the main road at an angle. “Where does that go?” he asked.

  “To the north, nowhere,” answered Vanbrugh. “It peters out at a farm. To the south, it passes a couple of ruined farms and finally joins the Huddersfield road.”

  He returned his attention to the taxis. “I don’t understand this,” he said. “These people wouldn’t be here at this time if they hadn’t come to toss ha’pennies in the old quarry. And yet we saw those other clients going away from it.”

  “Happen there’s been a change of plan,” Martineau guessed.

  “You mean, some of ’em came here, then found they’d come to the wrong place? It could be. This lot here could be a few more of ’em, just having a drink before they move on. I think I’d better take down their numbers, just in case.”

  “I’ve got the numbers, sir,” said Devery.

  “Good man!” said Vanbrugh. He looked at his watch. “Five past twelve. The place is officially open. We’ll try an odd glass of ale, shall we?”

  They entered the Moorcock, passing through an inner doorway into a small bar. Nearly a score of men crowded the place, and there was a hubbub of talk. The talk ceased as the newcomers were observed, and there were some furtive glances at the clock behind the bar. Some of the men knew Martineau, others knew Vanbrugh

  They made their way to the bar and Martineau ordered half pints of beer. Vanbrugh saw a man he knew, and he said: “How do, Tinker. No school today? Or is it a break for refreshment?” The man grinned and said: “What school, Inspector? If you mean Sunday school, I give over when I was twelve.”

  While this brief conversation went on, men were finishing their drinks and leaving the premises. As the door swung behind each departing group, cars could be heard starting up. Martineau smiled. “We’re ruining trade,” he said.

  The landlady left the bar and went through into the kitchen. The landlord remained, watching the exodus of customers with an expressionless gaze. He was a small, thin man with a sharp, high-colored face. He looked as if he might have been a retired jockey—retired or warned off.

  “I’m sorry we’ve driven off your customers, Alf,” said Vanbrugh, though he did not look sorry.

  Alf shrugged. Operating outside the licensing laws as he often did, he could not afford to quarrel with Vanbrugh. “It can’t be helped,” he said without rancor. “It was only passing trade, anyway. They’d soon a-been going.”

  “This is Inspector Martineau of Granchester City force,” said the County man. “We’re making inquiries about that murder yesterday.”

  Alf’s glance shifted. “Ah, a bad do,” he said. “A bad do for Gus, too.”

  “You know Gus?” Martineau interposed.

  “Sure, I know Gus. He always calls when he passes this way.”

  “Did you see anything of an old Buick car yesterday morning? About opening time, maybe.”

  “I saw in the paper they was looking for a Buick,” said Alf, and again his eyes shifted. He seemed to be trying to signal a warning. Martineau turned casually to look at the remaining customers. There were only four of them. Three of them were beery, raffish types; the fourth was a young taxi driver, not much more than twenty years old. The driver was drinking lemonade, the other three were drinking pints of ale. Martineau could associate the pint swillers with gambling, but not with yesterday’s crime. They were too bloated and flabby and, he thought, too old. Probably Alf’s alarm was due to his own fear of being heard telling the police anything at all.

  But Alf had something to tell. “Excuse me,” he said. He dodged quickly out of the bar, and went into the kitchen. He returned in a very short time. “Just something I had to tell the wife,” he apologized. Then he winked at Vanbrugh.

  “There was nowt much stirring up this way yesterday,” he said. “You’ll be lucky if you find out.” Then rather pointedly he turned away and began to collect empty glasses.

  The three policemen drank their half pints of beer. They said “Good day” and went outside. Now on the parking ground of the inn there were only the police car and one taxi. There was also the landlady standing at the side door. She beckoned, with an air of haste and secrecy. Vanbrugh and Martineau went to speak to her.

  Breathle
ssly she said her piece: “My husband says to tell you summat’s scared ’em away from t’owd quarry today. He doesn’t know what it is, except they’re keeping away. They’ve nearly all gone someplace else.”

  They thanked her. “We’ll go and have a look at the quarry,” said Martineau to Devery as they got into the car.

  When Vanbrugh said: “About here somewhere,” they left the Jaguar and climbed the rough rising land. The place they sought was carved into the side of a little hill, and had been left in the form of a small basin with half of its rim broken away. It had never been a commercial quarry; it was merely a place where, in the past, upland farmers had quarried stone to build barns and drywalls. Beneath the little cliff which had been made, there was a flat sandy place. It had been trodden hard, and it was littered with old used matchsticks and cigarette ends. But, when they found the place, they did not immediately notice the telltale rubbish. The first thing they saw was a prewar Buick car.

  “Ah,” said Martineau. “So this is what scared the gamblers.”

  “Yes, and how the devil was it brought here?” Vanbrugh demanded.

  While they looked at the car, Devery walked on. He returned and reported that there was an old cart track on the other side of the quarry.

  “It runs into the lane which comes out near the Moorcock,” he said.

  He was sent to find a telephone, and the two inspectors followed the cart track down to the lane.

  “I expect they switched cars somewhere around here,” said Martineau.

  Vanbrugh’s glance swept the deserted lane. “A right place to do it,” he said. “But some country body might have seen something. We’ll have further inquiries. I’ll see to it.”

  They went back to the quarry, to the abandoned Buick.

  “Well,” said Martineau. “It’s a start. This’ll give the fingerprint boys a bit of something to do.”

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