Maurice Procter - Murder Somewhere in This City

“That’s all right,” she replied. “Nobody can blame a man if he stays for the odd drink after a hard day.”

But she could not quite meet his glance, and he wondered if she were hiding resentment. Then he saw the evening paper, unopened, on the hall table.

“Haven’t you looked at the paper?” he asked. “Haven’t you heard the news?”

“No. What news?” she queried, rather absently he thought. He told her. She seemed to stop breathing when she heard the word “murder.” She held a button of his coat, and looked at it as she listened.

“Oh dear, that’s dreadful,” she said when she had heard it all. “Dreadful!” she repeated.

He noticed that she was very pale. “Now don’t get upset,” he said kindly. “The four thousand is a smack, but I can stand it. It’s Cicely and the boy I’m bothered about.”

“Of course,” she said quickly. “How is Colin?”

“He’s got a bad concussion, but the doctor says he’ll be all right. I hope so. You can never tell with a bang on the head.”

Her attention seemed to be straying. Then she became aware of his scrutiny, and she said: “I do hope he’ll get better, darling. Shall I make some supper?”

“Not for me, thanks. I’ve just had a meal.”

“I’ll make a drink of coffee,” she said, and hurried away to the kitchen. He frowned after her, observing uneasiness in her; uneasiness which was additional to the shocked concern which he had expected. It was as if the murder of Cicely had aroused in her some fear for herself. He shook his head. Unpredictable creatures, women.

After drinking his coffee, he felt extraordinarily drowsy. He was immediately suspicious, because he was never sleepy before midnight. “Did you put one of your sleeping pills in my coffee?” he demanded with heavy-eyed sharpness.

“No,” she denied.

“You have!” he insisted. “I can tell. Damn it. I’m not so worried about Cicely that I have to be put to sleep.”

She looked down at her hands, and the expression on her small face was hidden by fair hair and long dark eyelashes. He considered her, and reflected that the sleeping tablets showed practical sympathy, at any rate.

“Never mind,” he said. “Let’s go to bed.”

That was Saturday, St. Leger day. The day Granchester was shocked by the murder of Cicely Wainwright. The day her murderers’ guilty hands were stained green instead of red. The day Furnisher Steele was made to worry about his grandchild and Lucky Lusk about her face. The day Martineau, for the first time, actually wished that his wife Julia would leave him.

The stolen Buick used in the Cicely Wainwright murder was not found abandoned on the same day. This was rather a surprise for Martineau, and on Sunday morning, when the car was still missing, he began to entertain a cautious hope that it had been hidden in some place which, when found, would provide a clue to the identity of at least one of the felons.

The search for the Buick was an issue second only in importance to the search for green fingers. Martineau phoned Detective Inspector Vanbrugh of the County Police and talked the matter over with him.

“I’m strictly ethical today,” he said finally. “I’d like to make some inquiries in the County area, and I’d welcome the cooperation of one of your officers.”

“Will I do?” asked Vanbrugh.

“Thanks very much,” said Martineau. “I’ve got a car. I’ll pick you up in five minutes.”

In a Jaguar, with Devery driving, Martineau and Vanbrugh took the road to Boyton and the moors.

“Have you any particular place in mind?” the County man wanted to know.

“No,” said Martineau. “I want to follow the road past the place where we found the girl, and see what there is.”

“I’ll tell you what there is. Miles and miles of damn all. Except the Moorcock.”

“There’ll be a few isolated farms, I suppose.”

“Just a few. And some even more isolated reservoir keepers’ cottages. It won’t take us long to visit the lot, if the farm roads are good enough for this luxury wagon of yours.”

“I’ve heard about the Moorcock. Maybe we can call there.”

“Sure we’ll call,” said Vanbrugh. “Our men have been there, of course, but it won’t hurt the Moorcock people to have another visit.”

Soon the car was climbing toward the place where Cicely Wainwright’s body had been found. It was a fine morning, but there was a strong cool wind blowing across the hills. Traffic was sparse. In four miles the men in the police car saw only three cars, one bus, and two taxicabs. The cabs, and two of the cars, were packed with men, and the men were not of a type which would normally be seen riding in taxis. Vanbrugh frowned when he saw them.

“They’re going the wrong way,” he said. “There’s no place for a gaming school nearer the city than this.”

“The schools move around, don’t they?” Martineau remarked. “A different place every Sunday.”

“They profane the Sabbath in a number of places, and they use them on an irregular rotary system. They don’t often use the same place twice running.”

“Who decides?”

“The organizer. A man called Broadhead, we think. He gets a small commission for keeping the ring and paying the crows. He’s supposed to keep out welshers and twisters, too, but I imagine that’s impossible.”

As a City policeman, Martineau had no experience of big open-air gambling schools. But, among policemen, he had heard some talk of them. Now he wanted to hear more.

“Big money changes hands, doesn’t it?” he asked.

Vanbrugh explained that in the game where a man spun two halfpennies and tried to make them both alight “heads” upward on the ground, hundreds of pounds were often wagered on one throw of the coins. As in the more socially elevated game of Baccarat, winning players were inclined to leave both stakes and winnings in the ring, “doubling up” again and again in the hope of achieving the well-nigh impossible, a run of “heads” which would win all the available money of fifty or sixty gamblers in the ring. Starting with a one-pound stake and leaving all winnings on the ground, players had been known to “head ’em” eleven consecutive times in their efforts to “skin the ring.” And not all these nervy players were eventual losers. More than two thousand pounds lying in the ring was sometimes too much for the collective gambling spirit of the school, and the challenge would be only partly met. When the nervy one finally “tailed ’em,” he might not lose more than a quarter of his winnings.

“What about the sharps who can palm the coins and throw with two-headed ones?” Martineau queried.

“All that is taken care of,” Vanbrugh replied. “There’s a paid man called a putter-on. The man who’s making the toss holds two fingers out, close together, and the putter-on lays the coins on his fingers. After that, he simply throws them up. They spin together in the air, and they usually land showing two heads or two tails. If there’s one head and one tail, it’s a void throw.”

“How often do you raid a tossing school?”

“Very seldom,” said Vanbrugh. “You need a lot of men for that. Besides, those types will gamble somewhere, so they might as well be up on the moors out of harm’s way. We don’t bother much unless a school gets too big, or unless we get complaints of disorder and annoyance to people walking on the moors.” He pointed to some rising ground on the left of the road. “There’s a little disused quarry up there. It’s one of their places. It’s like all the others, very hard to approach without being spotted by the crows. There’s usually four or five of ’em, spread out in a wide circle. They pick the high places where they can see all around and they have field glasses.”