Maurice Procter - Murder Somewhere in This City

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.

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.”