Maurice Procter - Murder Somewhere in This City

“You’d need fifty men to surround the place and close in,” said Martineau.

“Yes, and you’ve also got to prove that they were gambling,” the County man agreed. “More trouble than what the job is worth.”

The road became level at the height of the moor, and Martineau saw a little inn standing lonely on the edge of a desolate plateau.

“That’s the Moorcock,” said Vanbrugh, “and I see they’ve got customers.” He indicated three taxis and one old car which stood beside the inn.

Devery stopped the car, and the three men alighted and gazed around.

“It’ll be a bit bleak in winter,” Martineau commented. He looked at a narrow, sandy moorland road which crossed the main road at an angle. “Where does that go?” he asked.

“To the north, nowhere,” answered Vanbrugh. “It peters out at a farm. To the south, it passes a couple of ruined farms and finally joins the Huddersfield road.”

He returned his attention to the taxis. “I don’t understand this,” he said. “These people wouldn’t be here at this time if they hadn’t come to toss ha’pennies in the old quarry. And yet we saw those other clients going away from it.”

“Happen there’s been a change of plan,” Martineau guessed.

“You mean, some of ’em came here, then found they’d come to the wrong place? It could be. This lot here could be a few more of ’em, just having a drink before they move on. I think I’d better take down their numbers, just in case.”

“I’ve got the numbers, sir,” said Devery.

“Good man!” said Vanbrugh. He looked at his watch. “Five past twelve. The place is officially open. We’ll try an odd glass of ale, shall we?”

They entered the Moorcock, passing through an inner doorway into a small bar. Nearly a score of men crowded the place, and there was a hubbub of talk. The talk ceased as the newcomers were observed, and there were some furtive glances at the clock behind the bar. Some of the men knew Martineau, others knew Vanbrugh

They made their way to the bar and Martineau ordered half pints of beer. Vanbrugh saw a man he knew, and he said: “How do, Tinker. No school today? Or is it a break for refreshment?” The man grinned and said: “What school, Inspector? If you mean Sunday school, I give over when I was twelve.”

While this brief conversation went on, men were finishing their drinks and leaving the premises. As the door swung behind each departing group, cars could be heard starting up. Martineau smiled. “We’re ruining trade,” he said.

The landlady left the bar and went through into the kitchen. The landlord remained, watching the exodus of customers with an expressionless gaze. He was a small, thin man with a sharp, high-colored face. He looked as if he might have been a retired jockey-retired or warned off.

“I’m sorry we’ve driven off your customers, Alf,” said Vanbrugh, though he did not look sorry.

Alf shrugged. Operating outside the licensing laws as he often did, he could not afford to quarrel with Vanbrugh. “It can’t be helped,” he said without rancor. “It was only passing trade, anyway. They’d soon a-been going.”

“This is Inspector Martineau of Granchester City force,” said the County man. “We’re making inquiries about that murder yesterday.”

Alf’s glance shifted. “Ah, a bad do,” he said. “A bad do for Gus, too.”

“You know Gus?” Martineau interposed.

“Sure, I know Gus. He always calls when he passes this way.”

“Did you see anything of an old Buick car yesterday morning? About opening time, maybe.”

“I saw in the paper they was looking for a Buick,” said Alf, and again his eyes shifted. He seemed to be trying to signal a warning. Martineau turned casually to look at the remaining customers. There were only four of them. Three of them were beery, raffish types; the fourth was a young taxi driver, not much more than twenty years old. The driver was drinking lemonade, the other three were drinking pints of ale. Martineau could associate the pint swillers with gambling, but not with yesterday’s crime. They were too bloated and flabby and, he thought, too old. Probably Alf’s alarm was due to his own fear of being heard telling the police anything at all.

But Alf had something to tell. “Excuse me,” he said. He dodged quickly out of the bar, and went into the kitchen. He returned in a very short time. “Just something I had to tell the wife,” he apologized. Then he winked at Vanbrugh.

“There was nowt much stirring up this way yesterday,” he said. “You’ll be lucky if you find out.” Then rather pointedly he turned away and began to collect empty glasses.

The three policemen drank their half pints of beer. They said “Good day” and went outside. Now on the parking ground of the inn there were only the police car and one taxi. There was also the landlady standing at the side door. She beckoned, with an air of haste and secrecy. Vanbrugh and Martineau went to speak to her.

Breathlessly she said her piece: “My husband says to tell you summat’s scared ’em away from t’owd quarry today. He doesn’t know what it is, except they’re keeping away. They’ve nearly all gone someplace else.”

They thanked her. “We’ll go and have a look at the quarry,” said Martineau to Devery as they got into the car.

When Vanbrugh said: “About here somewhere,” they left the Jaguar and climbed the rough rising land. The place they sought was carved into the side of a little hill, and had been left in the form of a small basin with half of its rim broken away. It had never been a commercial quarry; it was merely a place where, in the past, upland farmers had quarried stone to build barns and drywalls. Beneath the little cliff which had been made, there was a flat sandy place. It had been trodden hard, and it was littered with old used matchsticks and cigarette ends. But, when they found the place, they did not immediately notice the telltale rubbish. The first thing they saw was a prewar Buick car.

“Ah,” said Martineau. “So this is what scared the gamblers.”

“Yes, and how the devil was it brought here?” Vanbrugh demanded.

While they looked at the car, Devery walked on. He returned and reported that there was an old cart track on the other side of the quarry.

“It runs into the lane which comes out near the Moorcock,” he said.

He was sent to find a telephone, and the two inspectors followed the cart track down to the lane.

“I expect they switched cars somewhere around here,” said Martineau.

Vanbrugh’s glance swept the deserted lane. “A right place to do it,” he said. “But some country body might have seen something. We’ll have further inquiries. I’ll see to it.”

They went back to the quarry, to the abandoned Buick.

“Well,” said Martineau. “It’s a start. This’ll give the fingerprint boys a bit of something to do.”

Chloe’s sleeping pill did not prevent Gus Hawkins from awaking at his usual time on Sunday morning. He opened his eyes and became aware of the stiff breeze out of doors. The trees in his garden were waving to him.

He yawned and stretched. “It looks like a cool wind,” he said, comfortably aware that he did not have to get up and go to the office.

Chloe did not hear him. She had lain awake a long time listening for noises overhead, and now she slept heavily. It was Gus who heard a noise; a faint tinkling sound. He frowned. It occurred to him that the wind had loosened a tile on the roof.

He got up and had a quick bath, and put on some old flannels and a sweater. He went downstairs and put the kettle on, and while he waited for it to boil he went outside and walked to the end of his back garden. He looked up. The roof tiles appeared to be in regular pattern; none displaced. He walked to the front gate. The tiles on that side too were quite in order.