Maurice Procter - Murder Somewhere in This City

“Think he saw me carrying the girl?” Jakes wanted to know.

“Very likely,” said Clogger gloomily. “He’ll stop at the first phone.”

“It makes no difference,” said Starling. “We’ve got to keep moving fast, that’s all. We’ve only a mile or two to go, then we’re through with this car. Here, stow this money in your pockets…”

At fifteen minutes past seven that evening, Furnisher Steele answered the telephone. “Hello, hello,” he said, which is not the proper way to answer a phone call.

“Hello yourself,” said a man’s voice. “I want Furnisher Steele.”

“Speaking.”

“You may remember me, I’m Don Starling. You once got me sent down for a stretch.”

The old man did not like Starling’s tone. Also, he believed in looking squarely at men and affairs. “I got you nothing,” he replied. “You got yourself sent down.”

“I’ve got you in my book, anyway; but I’m going to give you a chance to put yourself right.”

“I’m right as I am,” said Furnisher. “To hell with you.”

“You won’t be so right when I’ve done with you, unless you do what I want. I don’t mind having an old man bashed, you know. You’d better be sensible.”

“I’ll be sensible. There’s a young man comes here who’s a detective. I’ll tell him about you.”

“I don’t think you will. I haven’t finished yet. What about that deaf-and-dumb kid of yours? She’s lovely. She’s worth it. I’ve a couple of friends just itching to get her down, and she won’t be able to scream. Better do what I want. It’s only a small thing. It won’t take you five minutes.”

Furnisher had not heard the last few words. The obscene suggestion of the main statement astounded and horrified him. He could scarcely believe that he had heard it. For some little time he could not answer, but when he did speak he had none of an old man’s bluster. There was a cold fury and firm resolve in his voice.

“Listen, Don Starling,” he said, reverting to his native dialect. “Anybody round ’ere ’ull tell thee I’m a man o’ my word. I ’ave a gun, an’ I’m not too old to use it. If thee or thy pals comes anywheer near my gran-child BY GOD I’LL SHOOT YER! I’ll be right close beside ’er till tha’s bin caught, an’ that won’t be long.”

There was a long silence, and Furnisher wondered if the other man had rung off and failed to hear his words. But Starling answered at last, and his tone had changed.

“So you won’t frighten, old man,” he said. “I like a fellow with some guts. Since you’re a man of your word, I’ll make a bargain with you. Say nothing to anybody about this phone call, and I’ll leave you and the girl alone. What about it?”

Furnisher thought about that. Stalling was a vicious man and a resourceful man. Look how he was still eluding the police! It was no use asking for trouble, and the information wouldn’t be a great deal of use to Devery.

“All right,” he said. “It’s a bargain. I’ll say nowt. I’ll keep my word, and I’ll have my gun handy in case you don’t keep yours.”

“Fair enough,” said Starling, and rung off. Later, Furnisher was plagued with curiosity. What had Starling wanted him to do? Now he would never know. “Aay dear,” he sighed. “I talk too much.”

At half past seven the manager of the Lacy Arms answered his telephone. “Central, double three double five,” he said efficiently.

He heard a curiously hollow voice: “Is that the Lacy Arms? Sorry to bother you on Saturday night, but I’d like to speak to one of your barmaids, Mrs. Lusk. It’s rather important.”

“Who’s that speaking?” the manager demanded.

“This is Mr. Lusk, her ex-husband. On urgent family business.”

“Oh, all right,” said the manager. “I’ll get her.”

“That article!” said Lucky Lusk, when she was informed of the call. “I haven’t heard of him for three years. I know what his urgent business’ll be. He’s hard up!”

“Shall I tell him you’re too busy?” the manager suggested.

“No, I’d better speak to him,” she said, and in spite of her harsh words she approached the telephone with feelings of curiosity and mild anxiety. “Hello, Chris, you there?” she asked.

She heard a chuckle, and a voice she knew. “Mention no names, honey, because this is Don, your dream man.”

She was taken aback. “Wha-what do you want?” she stammered.

“First of all I want to tell you I’m a desperate man. Old friends who won’t help me in my hour of need will get carved up. I mean carved up. Around the face and other important parts, you know.”

As plainly as if he were there she could see Starling’s curiously hot brown eyes, and the slight sneer which would be on his face when he talked in that manner. He was like some corner boy acting tough. Except that he was tough.

But she had recovered her poise. “You’ve been drinking,” she said.

“Not a drop.” The tone changed slightly. “I mean what I say. I want you to do me a very small service, and then keep quiet. You know Gus Hawkins?”

She did. And she had also read the evening paper.

He accurately guessed her thoughts. “Oh no,” he said convincingly. “Don’t mix me up with a murder. I have enough to do keeping away from the coppers as it is. I’m on the run, Lucky.”

“A man like Gus Hawkins wouldn’t have anything to do with the likes of you,” she said. “What do you want with him?”

“He can help me. He won’t be feeling so good about things, but he can still help me. I don’t want to go to his house till I know he’s at home, and just now I think he might be in the Stag’s Head, celebrating the bad day he’s had. I daren’t go there myself, but it’s only three minutes’ walk for you. If you’ll go and look, you’ll save me a journey.”

She was doubtful. It was all rather pat, rather specious.

“I can’t leave here on a Saturday night,” she said.

“I meant what I said about being desperate,” he reminded her. “I’m not going to argue with you. If you won’t do it for old times’ sake you’ll do it to save your bonny face. Now go on, you bitch, and do as I say! I’ll ring again in eight minutes. When you get back from the Stag you wait right there by the phone, so’s I don’t have to talk to your boss again. Understand?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Then get on with it!” he snarled, and rang off. Almost blind with rage, she went back to the bar. The pig, the dirty pig, to talk to her like that! She hoped the police would catch him and flog him! She had half a mind to go back and dial Central one-two-one-two, and tell Martineau.

In the bar, the manager looked at her with concern. “Bad news?” he asked.

“I’ve got to slip out for five minutes, Mr. Rose,” she said. “I won’t be longer than that.” For in spite of her anger she was afraid. Don Starling had threatened to slash her face. She did not think he would do it, but he might do it. He really was desperate: she knew that. He had not spoken like the Don Starling she used to know.

The Starling of two years ago would have tried normal persuasion first. He would not have spoken roughly until she had definitely refused to help him. But today he had started with a threat, even though it was such a small favor that he asked. A ridiculous thing, really. Go along the street on a trivial errand, or I’ll disfigure you. The man had lost all sense of proportion.

He distrusted everybody, that was it. He wanted to frighten everybody so that they wouldn’t dare to tell the police. Well, he’d frightened her, all right. She wasn’t going to tell. She had troubles enough.