Maurice Procter - Murder Somewhere in This City

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.”

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?”