Maurice Procter - Murder Somewhere in This City

“Yes, please do that,” said Gus, but he was watching closely.

Martineau knew that he was a hard man to deceive. Probably he already had his suspicions. It was time to be going. “All right, Gus. I hope you’re soon better,” he said, and took his leave. Outside, he said to Devery: “Now we’ll go and see his missus. She’ll tell us more. I don’t mind worrying her at all.”

Soon, unhampered by traffic, they were speeding across the city. They did not talk, until Martineau suddenly exclaimed: “Oh, confound it! I’m in the doghouse again! I forgot to phone and tell my wife I wouldn’t be home for dinner.”

Sunday was the one working day when the inspector went home for the midday meal. Now that it was mentioned, Devery felt annoyed with himself. He also had forgotten, and he had intended to increase his reputation for reliability and helpfulness by reminding his superior.

“It’s hardly your fault, sir,” he said. “You couldn’t know how things were going to develop.”

“It’s too late now, anyway,” said Martineau. “I’m apt to forget the domestic side when I’m busy; especially when I hear of a starling with a capital S fluttering around. We’re supposed to be on the Cicely Wainwright job, but I’d take time out from hunting the devil himself if there was half a chance of picking up Don Starling.”

“It’s an odd coincidence, if it was Starling in the attic.”

“In the mention of his name, you mean? The other thing is no coincidence at all. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. Mrs. Hawkins was knocking about with a queer crowd when she met Gus. She used to go to the places where Don Starling spent his time.”

“You think she knows him?”

“Of course she knows him. I’ve seen her with him, before Gus started courting her. She’s a little strumpet and she’s probably been with him since she was married. He’ll have been in that house before, when Gus was out.”

“It all ties in,” said Devery. “You could be right.”

“We have means of making sure,” his senior replied. “Cassidy found plenty of dabs. But first we’ll hear what Mrs. Hawkins has to say.”

They found Mrs. Hawkins alone. When she answered the doorbell, Martineau introduced himself unsmilingly. “And this is Constable Devery,” he said tersely. “May we come in?” When they were in the front room, he did not wait to be asked to sit down. “Who was the man in the attic?” he asked abruptly.

She gulped. “I-man in attic?”

“Yes. We think we know. We want you to tell us.”

She stared at the carpet. “I never saw any man,” she said in a low voice.

“May I use your phone?” he asked. She looked at him dully, and nodded. He went to the telephone in the hallway, leaving the room door open. He dialed CENtral 1212, and then, loudly enough for her to hear, he said: “Martineau here. Give me the C.I.D.”

When the C.I.D. clerk answered, he said: “I want Cassidy, if he’s in,” and when Cassidy came on the line he asked: “What have you done with the fingerprints you found in Gus Hawkins’ attic?”

“Sergeant Bird has them, sir. We-”

“Listen. Get out Don Starling’s prints and compare, will you?”

“Starling!” Cassidy echoed. “Well of all-I’ll do that at once, sir. Give me your number and I’ll ring you back.” Martineau gave the number, and went back to observe Chloe Hawkins’ consternation.

“It’s a very serious offense to harbor an escaped convict, Mrs. Hawkins,” he said.

She did not look at him. He could see that she was trembling, and he advised her to sit down.

“Of course,” he went on, suddenly gentle, “if you had been intimidated or blackmailed, and you told us the whole story, it would put a different complexion upon the matter.”

She remained silent, but she was obviously in a torment of doubt.

“Without help,” he pursued, speaking nothing but the truth, “we shall have to make persistent inquiries. When we do that, it is often embarrassing for the people concerned. We find out all sorts of things.”

She had found a handkerchief somewhere. She twisted it in her hands. Martineau waited for her to speak.

“I didn’t do anything. I didn’t harbor him,” she said at last “He came here and just walked into the house.”

“You are referring to Don Starling, of course?”

“Yes. He said he was going to stay here for one night, and if I didn’t hide him he’d tell Gus all sorts of lies about me. I–I was afraid of him, so I hid him in the attic, and this morning Gus heard him.”

“He slept in the attic? On the bare boards?”

“I gave him two blankets, but I moved them this morning before the detectives came.”

“Did you see him hit Gus?”

“No. I was in bed. He came into the bedroom, and accused me of having told Gus. I told him he’d done it himself with making a noise. I said he’d better go quickly, in case the police came to see Gus about the murder. So he went, and Mrs. London-that’s the doctor’s wife-saw him going away from the house.”

“What time did he come, last night?”

“About five to eight.”

“Was he very hungry?”

“He made me give him a meal, but I wouldn’t say he was starving.”

“Was he dirty and unshaven?”

“Not particularly. He had a wash before his meal, but-” She remembered something. “-Yes, he did need a shave, but not too badly.”

“What was he wearing?”

She described Starling’s clothes as well as she could.

“Did he ask for money?” Martineau pursued.

“No. At first I thought he’d come for money. He said he didn’t want money.”

“You mentioned money and he said he didn’t want any?”

“That’s right.”

“Well, well!” said Martineau. “A man on the run…” He looked thoughtful. He began to pace about.

One quality of a good policeman is the ability to remember to ask all the questions which should be asked. Martineau had his share of that ability. Now he remembered to pose two pertinent questions before he asked the one which now might be the most important. But Mrs. Hawkins could give him no clue as to where Starling had been when he came to her, nor where he went when he left her.

“Too bad,” said Martineau. “Now, did you notice anything unusual about his appearance?”

“I don’t think so. What do you mean?”

“You saw him wash his hands. Did you watch him eat his meal?”

“Yes.”

“Did he have dirty, broken fingernails?”

“I didn’t notice his nails.”

“So his hands seemed to be quite clean and well cared for? As clean as mine, for instance?”

“No, not as clean as yours. His fingers were sort of stained.”

“What color?”

“Green.”

“You’re sure about the stain, and the color?”

“I’m quite sure. They weren’t as green as Gus’s, but I remember noticing them and wondering if it was the same sort of stuff he’d got on his hands.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hawkins. Now I’m afraid I’ll have to use your phone again. Do you mind?”

She did not mind. She heard him giving the new information to Headquarters. He put some emphasis on the matter of green-stained hands. He wanted her to hear him, so that she would not forget.

When he had taken Mrs. Hawkins’ statement and left the house, Martineau remembered to telephone his wife. Though he had failed her with regard to dinner, he could at least tell her he would not be home for tea. He stopped at the first public telephone, but there was no answer to his call. So she was out, somewhere. He sighed. He would have to call later.

He forgot to call later.

About the time that Gus Hawkins was taken to the hospital, his enormous but dim-witted henchman, Bill Bragg, strolled from his home to the Brick Lane Working Men’s Club. There it was his practice on Sunday mornings to have a pint or two of beer before the normal opening time, to engage in conversation with friends, and to acquire certain information.