Maurice Procter - Murder Somewhere in This City

He did not feel safe until he got out of the train at Hellifield. At that quiet country junction there was not even a railway policeman in sight. After a further study of train schedules, he left the station and returned in time to catch a train to Preston. He booked single to Preston, and at Preston he booked single to Wigan. In Wigan he caught a bus, and approached Granchester from the west, instead of from the east as might have been expected.

When he reached Granchester it was dark, and still raining a little. He dropped off the bus as it turned a corner into Lacy Street-the less prosperous end of Lacy Street-and walked six yards to a darkened shop doorway. From the doorway he watched another doorway across the road. There was a shabby sign over it:

BILLIARDS. SNOOKER.

12 TABLES 12

He had once been very familiar with that little Mecca of misspent youth. He knew that it would be exactly ten o’clock when the single light above the sign was switched off. The place always closed at that time.

In a little while the light went out, and he nodded with grim satisfaction. He had timed it well: no hanging about at the risk of being seen.

A few minutes later he heard the thud of feet on wooden stairs, and half-a-dozen youths emerged from the billiard hall. Their attire ranged from nearly ragged to shoddy-smart. They parted noisily into two groups, and went their ways. Starling waited. Somebody always called at the toilet.

A minute later the expected lingerer emerged, still buttoning his flies, and hastened after his friends. Starling waited until there was no wayfarer near enough to recognize him, then he crossed the street and went through the doorway under the sign.

He climbed the wooden stairs carefully. There were three flights, because the billiard saloon was on the top floor of the building. He peered through a glass-paned door, and saw old Bert Darwin, who ran the place, busily pulling sheets over the tables.

He chuckled “Good old Bert,” pushed the door gently, and slipped sideways through the opening. He flitted unseen to the open door of Bert’s office, and entered. There was a chair and a roll-top desk. He sat down, and lit the cigarettes he had bought in Leeds.

Bert finished covering the tables. He came into the office, whistling softly. He stopped whistling and his mouth fell open when he saw Starling. Starling grinned at him.

“’Lo, Bert,” he said.

“Er, hello, Don. I never saw you come in.”

“Neither did anybody else. I shall be staying here till morning.”

“Nay, Don, you can’t do that. Suppose-”

“Suppose nothing. You lock the place up safe, see? I’ll stay here as quiet as a mouse. You’ll leave me a key, and I’ll let myself out in the morning. Nobody’ll ever know I’ve been here. You won’t know yourself if you choose to forget it.”

“I can’t let you stay here. The police-”

Starling was on his feet. “You can and you will,” he said.

“All right, Don, all right. But for God’s sake be careful.”

“I’ll be careful. By the time the bogies get the rumor I’m here, I’ll have been in five other places, all different. You mind you lock up safe, that’s all.”

“I’ll lock up, all right. H-here’s my spare key.”

“Thanks,” said Starling, pocketing the key. He threw a florin on the desk. “You used to sell a few sweets. I’m hungry. Give me four bars of plain chocolate.”

With fumbling fingers Bert unlocked a drawer and took out the chocolate.

“Right. That’ll be all,” said Starling. “Good night, Bert.”

“Eh? Oh sure. Good night, Don.”

Bert was at the office door when Starling spoke again. “Oh, and, Bert,” he said quietly. “Don’t get any fancy ideas in connection with coppers, will you?”

Bert was shocked, and hurt. “Nay, Don!” he reproached. “I’ll admit I don’t like having you here, but that don’t mean I’ll go running to the bogies. What do you think I am?”

“I don’t think anything, I just want you to remember what’s good for you. If the law finds me here tonight, you’ll be looked after. My friends’ll look after you. They’ll bash your crown in.”

Bert went without further speech, and Starling quietly followed him down to the door to make sure it was locked. He tried the fire door too, and found it secure. Presently he would lie on the upholstered bench which ran around the walls of the big room, but at the moment he was content to sit in the dark and make plans.

The thing to do was to get some ready money-it never occurred to Starling that this was almost a universal problem-and then go after the stolen jewelry which he had hidden two years before. He had various schemes for raising money: he had had time to think about that. For what he had in mind he would need some mates. Arrangements would have to be made. Well, there was the telephone.

“In the morning, Don,” he said to himself. “In the morning, just before you skip out of here.”

The billiard saloon was opened at ten o’clock every weekday morning. Having made a telephone call, Don Starling quitted the place at five minutes to nine, when the streets were thronged with hurrying city workers. He was keenly alert for the quick stare of sudden recognition, because today his picture was in the papers, but nobody noticed him as he made his way to Pasture Park. It was a fine, warm morning after yesterday’s thunderstorm, and he sat in the sunshine on a bench in a secluded corner of the park. Life was good. He read about himself in a newspaper, but his hard glance was often raised to look above the paper. The price of freedom is eternal vigilance.

At half past eleven, when the pubs opened, he sought surroundings better suited to his temperament. But by an exercise of his considerable will power he did not drink much, and the taverns he patronized were small places where neither he nor his friends had ever been customers.

During his solitary watchful drinking he considered his plans. His phone call had set the ball rolling. He had contacted the man he wanted and set him to work. Tomorrow he would meet the man, and in the meantime he would have to avoid the police. He had no illusions about the police: they would be very, very busy looking for him. That bastard Martineau would be running around like a scalded cat. Well, there were a number of possible hiding places. The thing was, could he avoid boredom? Boredom made a man careless.

He needed companionship, and he needed a woman. “For two years I’ve been like a parrot in a cage,” he reflected. He glanced around the small bar lounge where he was sitting. It was not the place to look for his sort of woman.

The haunts of loose and lively women were the haunts of people who knew Don Starling. And they were the places where the police would be looking for him. Would he take the risk? A faint smile flitted across his face when he imagined the awed glances, the nudges and whispers, which his presence would cause. Maybe he would be able to pick up a little chicken who wanted some second-hand notoriety. Maybe he would find himself consorting with a red-hot young love-weed smoker. The thought stirred him.

He remembered some of the women he knew. Lucky Lusk would still be at the Lacy Arms. But he had never gone very far with Lucky, and now she would want to keep half the length of Lacy Street away from him. There were others with whom he had been more successful. Among them Chloe Barber, Gus Hawkins’ wife. A wicked little piece, Chloe. It might be a good thing to get in touch with her. He would have to think about it.

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.