Maurice Procter - Murder Somewhere in This City

“He might come to you for shelter.”

“I shouldn’t think so. Well, he hasn’t asked for shelter, anyway. I haven’t seen him.”

Martineau was not satisfied. There was something missing. If she had had no contact of any sort with Starling, why hadn’t she demanded, indignantly, the reason why she of all people should be questioned about him?

“You did know him quite well at one time, didn’t you?” he probed.

“Yes. But that was years ago, before I met Chris, Chris Lusk. I thought he was a bit wild, but when I found out what he really was I dropped him like a hot cinder.”

“Still, he might come to you for shelter. He was seen hanging around here. He tried your door.”

“He-he tried my door?” She was obviously terrified. She put a hand to her face, as if to protect it. “When? When was that?”

“Early on Saturday night.”

“Oh,” she sighed, curiously relieved. Then she was assailed by a new fear. “Do you think he might come here again?” And before he could answer she said: “Oh no, he won’t come again.”

“What makes you think he won’t?”

“Well, I–I don’t think he’d dare.”

“You don’t? He’s pretty daring, you know. Do you keep your doors locked all the time? When you’re at home, I mean.”

“No, of course I don’t,” she said, and then she was on her feet, staring at Martineau. Her face was chalk-white. “He might be in here now,” was her panic-stricken whisper. “He might be listening to us. He might have crept in while I was upstairs.”

“Now, now, take it easy,” said Martineau. “Of course he isn’t here.” But he could not prevent himself from taking a speculative look at the pantry door.

Lucky came to him, as if for protection. She seized his arm. “I’m safe while you’re here,” she said. She shuddered at an intolerable thought. “Don’t go till you make sure he isn’t here. Lock the doors and search everywhere.” She stooped quickly to the hearth. “Here, take the poker.”

He looked at her curiously. “Has Starling been threatening you?” he wanted to know.

“Yes-no. Go on, make sure he isn’t here.”

Her terror was very real. He locked the doors and searched the house. Lucky, tensely holding the poker, was at his elbow wherever he went.

The house was small, and it was tidy. It did not take long to make sure that no man was hiding there.

“Now then,” said Martineau. “Put that poker down, and tell me about Starling.”

“I daren’t tell you,” she said.

“Because he threatened you?”

“He said he’d carve me up.”

“Well, never mind. I’ll see that he doesn’t. Why did he threaten you?”

“If I told you, it wouldn’t help you one little bit.”

“Let me be the judge of that.”

“I daren’t,” she said, and ran to him. Her distress was undoubtedly genuine. “You don’t know what it is,” she said, with her head against his shoulder, “to have no man of your own to protect you from people like Don Starling. You have to pretend to be bold and tough, just to keep your end up.” And then, though she was weeping, she said with a kind of anger: “I never had a man who was any bloody good.”

He raised her chin and smiled down at her. “Now, Lucky,” he chided gently. “Don’t be such a softy. There’s nothing to be afraid of. I won’t let Starling get near you. Why don’t you trust me, and tell me all about it?”

She told him about Saturday night’s phone call from Starling.

“You were right,” he said, when the little tale was ended. “It doesn’t help much. But thanks all the same. Nobody will ever know you’ve told me.”

“What will you do now?” she asked.

“I’ll put some men out,” he said. “Starling has no reason to hurt you, but they’ll serve the double purpose of protecting you and picking up Starling if he shows his face around this district. You haven’t a thing to worry about.”

She was still close to him, and he was holding her gently, with one arm around her. Suddenly she hugged him hungrily, pressing close to him. That was too much for him. He put both arms around her, and became aware of her nearly-naked torso beneath the dressing gown. She smelled sweet and clean.

She was on her toes. “Ooh, you!” she said, and put her aims around his neck. She pulled his head down and kissed him fiercely. “You!” she said again. He kissed her, quite literally sweeping her from her feet; and then over his shoulder she saw the time by the clock on the fireplace.

She broke away from him. “That’ll do, for a start,” she said. Her self-possession quickly restored his, but he may have looked disappointed. Smiling, she reached up and touched his face. “Call it a promise, darling,” she said. “Just now there isn’t time. I’ve got to go to work.”

He left her then, with a reminder that he would post some men to he in wait for Don Starling. He thought it quite possible that the hunted man, with no place to go, might call at Lucky’s house again. By intimidation he had forced her to help him once, and he would expect to be able to do so a second time.

Then, deep in thought, Martineau drove slowly back to Headquarters. “I’d better take Devery the next time I go to see Lucky,” he decided. It was obvious that she expected him to call again, and without Devery.

He pondered, with some inward excitement, about Lucky. Would he go to see her again, without Devery? It was a delicious temptation. She was certainly attractive. Quite lovely, really. And she was a good girl. Or at least, she wasn’t a bad one. She had been unfortunate: she had never had a man who was any good. She had been a good wife to the wastrel who married her. Fortunately she hadn’t had any children by him. What sort of a mother would she have made?

At Headquarters, Martineau heard some interesting news. A man with green fingers had been brought in for interrogation. And the man was Doug Savage, unofficial landlord of the Prodigal Son Inn.

At that moment, Martineau was informed, Savage was being put to the question by Superintendent Clay. The interview was taking place in a bleak, windowless, nearly soundproof room at the far end of the C.I.D. office. The room went by various names, the most common of which were the Torture Chamber, the Sweating Room, and the Bank Manager’s Office. But any torture practiced there was purely psychological. The aspect of the room itself was a help to detectives. Suspects had a feeling that they were shut off from the free world, in a place where anything could happen.

Martineau said: “Doug Savage with stained hands?” and frowned. He had talked briefly with Savage a few hours after the crime, and at that time his hands had been quite clean. Moreover, he had an alibi.

“I’d better go along there,” he said, and as he went he reflected that some of the dusted money might have been passed to Savage over the bar in his pub, simply to pay for drinks.

He entered the interrogation room. It had a bare concrete floor, white-tiled walls and an off-white ceiling, because it was really an uncompleted washroom. The only articles of furniture were a table and four chairs in the center of the floor, and a small desk and a chair for a shorthand writer in one corner. Clay and Doug Savage were seated facing each other across the table. A burly detective stood behind the equally burly innkeeper, another detective stood beside the door, and a clerk sat at the desk.

Clay looked up when Martineau entered. It was a surly, irritable glance. Evidently the interview was not going well. Savage looked surly too, and wary; but not yet nervous.

“Hello, Inspector,” said Clay, and he rose. “Come outside a minute.”