Maurice Procter - Murder Somewhere in This City

“And never will. So it’s all fixed then. What about this new bloke-what do you call him? — Clogger? Sure he’s all right?”

“He’s right enough.”

“And Lolly, is he ready?”

“As ready as he ever will be. Eigh up! This chap coming off the escalator knows me. Let me be away. Cheerio.”

“Cheerio,” said Starling, and he also turned away, walking erect and keen-eyed. His stiff, sturdy, but by no means short figure moved with something of a terrier’s bounce.

Starling slept that night in Boyton, in the frowzy bed of an old bachelor night watchman whom he had known from childhood. In the morning he moved out at his usual time, between eight and nine, though the streets-except those in the center of the town-were not so crowded because it was Saturday.

Not only was it Saturday, it was St. Leger day, and a small percentage of the population were setting off to see the races at Doncaster. It was a royal occasion: the Queen would be there. Well, today Don Starling could also go to the races. Moreover, if no mistake were made this morning, he would have some money to put on the horses. The amount depended on how much Gus Hawkins sent to the bank.

The next two hours were the most trying for Starling since his escape from Pontfield. He had to make his way to a quiet yard behind a row of shops in Highfield. A greengrocer kept one of the shops, and he garaged his small van in the yard. He used the van very early in the morning to bring his supplies from the wholesale market. Afterward, while he was busy in his shop, he left the van standing in the open garage in the yard. In all probability he would not look at the van again until evening, and perhaps then only when he locked up the garage.

Starling had a rendezvous at the van, at nine forty-five. He was there at nine-thirty, reconnoitering cautiously. Everything was as he had been told it would be. He chose his moment, and slipped into the garage. He entered the van and sat in the back of it, in darkness which smelled of apples, celery and cut flowers. To ease the tension he broke one of his own rules for concealment: he smoked a cigarette, holding it cupped in his hand.

At nine-fifty Lolly Jakes arrived. Starling had not seen him for two years. Lolly slipped casually into the driving seat of the van, then he half turned his head and said softly: “That you, Don?”

“Yeh. All in order?”

“Sure. The greengrocer’s as busy as hell. Coining money. We shall have finished with this thing before he knows it’s gone.”

“You’re late.”

“Plenty of time,” said Lolly comfortably. “The banks don’t open till ten. We’ll be there. We’ll collect too. There should be plenty. It was a proper day out for the bookies yesterday. All the favorites stopped to piss.”

Lolly had a broad face, with a very small hooked nose and dull, prominent eyes. He had meaty shoulders, and the back of his neck was like a section of Irish bacon. He was incurably lazy, but sudden, treacherous and dangerous in the use of razor and knuckleduster. For their purposes, both Starling and Lovett considered him to be reliable. The local knowledge required to “borrow” a van without trouble had been his initial contribution to the operation which was beginning.

Lolly drove the van into town and parked it at the junction of Higgitt’s Passage and Back Lacy Street. He remained in the driving seat, and Starling continued to lurk in the back. From the small rear window the fugitive could see the Prodigal Son, the little pub which Doug Savage managed for his mother. The door was closed, and the place seemed to have a sly, secretive air. Whatever the occupants saw, they would not tell the police. Doug Savage was a loudmouth, but not when the constabulary were within hearing. Starling dismissed the Prodigal Son from his mind.

The forty minutes’ wait was a bad time for him. It seemed that the signal for action would never come. And all the time he was in danger, here in the center of the city, where he had not dared to venture since his escape from prison. Here were more policemen to the acre than anywhere else in the North of England, and they all knew Don Starling.

The heart of a great provincial city is a small place, and its denizens know each other. It is the center of circulation, and the anonymous flowing crowds are its life blood. But among the swarming thousands certain people are, in a manner of speaking, stationary. A few hundred barmaids, publicans, waitresses, caretakers, doormen, bank messengers, newsboys, barrow boys, businessmen, postmen, taxi drivers, shopkeepers, bookies’ runners, spivs, layabouts, thieves, whoremongers, prostitutes and policemen know each other by contact, by name, or by sight. It was so in Granchester, and Don Starling was aware of it. He had spent his time and his money in the heart of the city, and now he dared show himself but briefly, at the moment of action.

While he waited, he naturally wondered what his accomplices were doing. What about Clogger Roach, whom he had never seen? And Peter Purchas, that weak and timorous man? All he had to do was scratch his head, and no doubt his hand would tremble when he did it.

The signal would mean that a worth-while sum of money would soon be on its way from Gus Hawkins’ office to the bank. If Gus had banked his race money and winnings last night, there would be another simple signal to indicate that money would be taken from the bank. This errand had been accomplished many hundreds of times before by a girl cashier and a man-or a boy. There had never been any sort of interference. No trouble would be expected this morning.

At last it became evident that Purchas had given the signal. A Buick car reversed into the archway at the end of the back street, and Lolly Jakes said: “Here’s Laurie.” And a minute later Clogger Roach sauntered past the rear of the van.

Clogger was the lookout. He had been “given the office” by Purchas. He was comparatively a stranger in town, but Laurie Lovett had known him a long time, and he guaranteed him. Through the van window Starling studied the wiry figure and the narrow head. Clogger turned to look back, and revealed the dark, fanatical face of one who would always be passionately sure of his rights in the world, and equally passionate in denying his obligations. An envious, ill-humored man. Starling disliked him on sight.

Then there was no time to study character. Clogger was walking back briskly, just as if he were going somewhere. It had been arranged that he would pass the girl and her escort when they were close to the van. The moment had come. Starling pushed open the door of the van. Jakes got out of the driving seat. Laurie Lovett reversed the Buick along the back street.

The youth and the girl with the money were there, just passing the van. No one else was in sight.

The lad was plucky. He said: “Run for it, Ciss,” and squared up to Jakes and Starling. But Clogger was moving silently behind him. He swung a loaded cosh at the full length of his arm and felled the boy. It was an unnecessarily hard blow. He swung at the girl, too, but she was away, screaming as she ran.

In two strides Starling caught her. Terrified, she screamed louder. He struck hard with his fist at her exposed throat, and the scream ended abruptly. Jake came up, and the two men dragged her to the Buick at a run. Clogger was holding a rear door open. They threw her into the car, and tumbled in after her. Clogger got into the front seat beside the driver, and the car sped along the back street, through the archway, and into the open street

The girl lay knees-up on the floor of the car and Starling crouched over her. She was evidently hysterical, because she was screaming again, a thick, painful scream. The noise alarmed everybody in the car. “Shut her up!” Clogger snarled. Starling knelt heavily on her chest. He put his left hand over her mouth and nostrils and hammered savagely at her throat and jaw. The scream became a muffled moan. “Here, stroke her with this,” said Clogger. Starling struck once with the cosh foreshortened. But the car was swinging round a corner and, instead of the skull, the bruised, tender throat received the blow. The girl went limp, and her eyes closed.