Maurice Procter - Murder Somewhere in This City

There was a very small skylight window in the roof. While he was looking up, he saw a brief flutter of movement behind the glass. He smiled. That was it. Another small bird had got in. Once he had found a dead starling in the attic. He never knew how it came to be there, but the poor thing had got in somehow and, unable to get out, it had starved to death. Well, a bird in the attic was better than a loose tile on the roof. He had only to go up and open the skylight, and it would fly out.

He went back to the house and brewed the morning tea. He carried a cup upstairs for Chloe. She awoke when he entered the bedroom. She lay still, looking at him drowsily.

“Cupper tea, love,” he said. Then: “I think there’s a starling in the attic.”

She sat bolt upright, staring open-mouthed. Her face was sickly white. The cup rattled in the saucer as she mechanically accepted it, and some of the tea was spilled. “Wha-what?” she stammered.

He grinned. “There’s another starling got into the attic. You’re not frightened of a bird, are you?”

She achieved a weak smile. “Well, they flutter around, don’t they?”

“I’ll go and let the poor thing out,” he said.

“No, don’t bother just now,” she said quickly. “Come back to bed, darling.”

He seemed slightly surprised. She guessed that she was not looking her best. She pouted, and stroked and patted his pillow, and wriggled impatiently.

“She wants him to come back to bed right now,” she whispered.

“You haven’t got the sleep out of your eyes,” he said, and went out onto the landing.

“Gus! Come here!” she called, in a panic.

“All right,” he said. “In a minute.” He was holding the cord and letting down the loft ladder.

She sat listening, speechless with apprehension now.

Gus climbed the steps. When his shoulders reached the level of the attic floor he received a hard blow on the head, from above and behind. He fell forward onto the steps, slithered down them, and lay crumpled at the foot.

Gus Hawkins was knocked on the head at about ten o’clock. The police were informed at half past, by his doctor. At two o’clock, four hours after the incident, Martineau was casually told about it by a C.I.D. clerk when he returned to Headquarters from the old quarry on the moors.

“Hawkins?” he said, immediately interested. “What happened?”

“His wife called the doctor and said he’d fallen down the attic steps. When the doc got there he found she hadn’t done a thing for Gus except try to pour brandy into him while he was still unconscious. I understand she’s one of the helpless type; a charming nincompoop.”

Martineau nodded. “She’s a bad little bitch,” he said.

The clerk, being a policeman, was neither surprised nor shocked. “Is zat so?” he said. “Well, the doctor lives just across the road from Gus, and, from upstairs, the doctor’s wife saw a man leave the house rather hurriedly while the doc was actually taking the phone call. She told the doctor, and he mentioned the man to Mrs. Hawkins. She said she never saw any man. She was in bed when the accident happened, she said.”

“So the doctor thought Gus might have had a burglar, and he advised calling the police.”

“Something like that, sir. But Mrs. Hawkins didn’t want the police. She said she didn’t think there’d been a man in the house.”

“So?”

“So the doctor called the police himself. Gus was still unconscious, and the doc couldn’t quite figure how a simple tumble had so well and truly laid him out.”

“You mean, the doctor thinks somebody crowned him?”

“He admitted that it was a possibility, sir.”

“Who went on the job?”

“Harmon and Cassidy.”

“What did they get?”

“Nothing but a lot of prints.”

“Where are they now?”

“Gone to have a bite of lunch, sir.”

“What about Gus? Is the injury serious?”

“I don’t know. They took him to the Infirmary.”

“Poor old Gus,” said Martineau. “I think I’ll go and see how he is.”

But at that moment Detective Constable Cassidy entered the office. “I want you,” said Martineau. “Give me the griff on this Hawkins job.”

“There’s very little to give, sir,” said Cassidy, with sorrow in his Irish voice. “We’ve made neither head nor tail of it. There’s nothing been stolen, that we know of. But somebody was in the attic, or has been there lately. For what reason, it’s hard to say.”

“Happen he just ran up there to avoid Gus?”

“No, sir,” said Cassidy. “You haven’t got the picture.” He explained how the loft ladder worked.

“I see,” said Martineau thoughtfully. “What did you think of Mrs. Hawkins? What did she tell you?”

“Ah, she was very jittery, sir. Didn’t seem to know what she was saying half the time. She said she ran out onto the landing as soon as she heard Mr. Hawkins fall, but she neither saw nor heard anybody else. I asked her if he had any reason for going up the steps and she said he’d heard a noise, but she’d already told the doctor she didn’t know why he went up.”

“Not quite truthful, you think?”

“I wouldn’t like to give me expert opinion on that, sir. She was a mite confused, maybe.”

“She was confused, all right, hut not the way you think,” said Martineau. “I’ll go and hear what Gus has to say, if he’s conscious.”

He took Devery with him to the hospital, and as they entered by the main doorway they passed a young woman who was going out. She did not know them, or recognize them as policemen.

“There, very much in the flesh, goes Mrs. Hawkins,” said Martineau when she had gone.

“I thought you only knew her by reputation,” said Devery.

“I don’t have opinions about people I know by reputation,” was the crisp reply. “I know her by sight. I’ve seen her around, before and after marriage. If she’s an honest wife, you can call me Morgan Unwin Gassbury.”

At the inquiry desk Martineau introduced himself. A call was put through to a private ward. Yes, the police could see Mr. Hawkins.

Gus had a sunny room to himself, and somebody had already provided flowers. His head was bandaged, but he was propped up by pillows.

“Ten minutes. And don’t get him worried or excited,” said the ward sister.

“What the devil do you want?” asked Gus.

“We heard you were poorly, and thought we’d come and see you,” said Martineau, grinning.

“I notice you didn’t bring me any grapes. I never saw a copper part with anything yet. Nobody ever comes off best with you fellows.”

“Tut tut, he’s peevish. He must be getting better already.”

“Give over,” said Gus. “You can’t kid me. What do you want?”

“Did you see what hit you?”

“No. Never saw a thing. It was like the house falling on me.”

“Why were you going into the attic?”

Gus told them how he had gone outside to look at the roof. “I saw something move,” he went on, “and thought we’d got another starling trapped up there.”

Martineau jumped. “A what?”

“We once had a starling got into the attic. It couldn’t get out and it died.”

Martineau glanced at Devery, and received a look of bright surmise. Then he heard Gus asking a question: “Now you tell me what hit me. My wife said the police hadn’t told her anything. Was it the trapdoor or something fell on me?”

Martineau had been warned not to worry Gus. There was nothing more likely to do so than a suspicion that somebody had been hiding in the attic. “It was an accident of some sort, Gus,” he said. “It isn’t my inquiry, but I’ll get the details for you. Tell you what, I’ll send one of the officers concerned to talk to you.”