Maurice Procter - Murder Somewhere in This City

For a long time Martineau had been expecting something of the sort to happen. In England, the safe country, where policemen went unarmed and the criminal world had a climate less violent than most other lands, employers and businessmen not only disregarded the possibility of robbery in the street, they asked for it. Near any bank, in any town, on any weekday morning, possible victims could be seen from the elderly commissionaire and small shortsighted clerk transporting the payroll of a big factory, to the office boy or shopgirl going casually to and fro with a handful of fivers. They asked for it. And when they sent out a young girl with money chained to her wrist, they asked for murder.

Gus Hawkins had done that, and Gus Hawkins was a nice fellow. An extremely nice fellow. Gus Hawkins, who went to the races with a retired heavyweight wrestler as big as Carnera to protect his money, would be very sorry about the morning’s happenings. Perhaps, in future, he would send his man to the bank with the takings. A wrestler wouldn’t strangle quite so easily as this girl here.

Martineau’s bitter thoughts were interrupted by the return of Devery, who was followed up by a County police patrol car, with two uniformed officers. After a brief conference with their disgruntled colleague they glanced curiously at the City men, then sped away in the direction presumably taken by the fugitive American car.

The inspector turned to the commercial traveler. The man’s name was Hartley, and he lived at Harrogate, and, after acting boldly in the public interest, he was beginning to be nervous and careful. He was involved in a murder. It was possible that the police would not believe what he told them. Persons who discovered bodies were often suspected of being the killers.

Martineau observed his uneasiness. “Don’t worry,” he said. “We already know what’s behind this. Tell me what you saw.”

“I was just coming over the brow up there, on my way to Granchester,” said Hartley with restored confidence. “As this bit of road came into sight I saw a car stopped here, facing toward me. A man was just walking away from the car, carrying something in both arms. It looked like a body. He dropped it there, where it is now, and ran back to the car. I put on speed, to try to get past the car before it got going again. I didn’t quite succeed. It started to move, and the driver waved me down. It crossed my mind that the last thing he’d want was a smashed-up car, if he was on some crooked game. So I sounded my horn for him to keep out of my way, and kept going.”

“You did well,” said Martineau. “You’re a quick thinker. So they let you go.”

“Well, the driver made a half-hearted attempt to make me swerve off the road, but I held my course and he didn’t risk a bump. I watched the car in my mirror when I was past. It went off the way it had been facing. I stopped at the farm down there and dialed nine-nine-nine.”

“What sort of a car was it?”

“A Buick, I think. An old Buick. Prewar. It was a sort of dusty black color. The coachwork looked very shabby and neglected. I bet it hadn’t been cleaned for ages.”

“Did you get the registration number?”

“Sorry, no. I’m afraid I didn’t.”

“Did you notice any part of the number, or any of the letters?”

“No. I never looked at the number. I was more concerned with watching the driver, and the front wheels.”

“Would you know him again?”

“I doubt if I would. When I got near, he put his hand across his face. I think they all did.”

“All? How many men in the car?”

“I’m pretty sure there were four of them. The car seemed to be full.”

“What about the man who carried the body?”

“He was back in the car before I got near enough to have a good look at him. He seemed to be a big, hefty man.”

“Tall?”

“I wouldn’t say he was as tall as you, but he struck me as being pretty big and burly.”

“About what age?”

“Thirty, forty. Hard to say. He was wearing a dark suit and a soft hat. I couldn’t say just what color.”

“Do you remember anything else about any of the others?”

“No. Just eyes; staring eyes over their hands. They’ll all know me again.”

“Don’t worry about that, either. They’ll be too busy to bother about you,” said Martineau.

He spoke to Devery. “What did you find out?”

Devery looked at his watch. “It happened fifty-five minutes ago, at ten to eleven,” he said. “The girl, Cicely Wainwright, was taking cash from Gus Hawkins’ office to Lloyd’s Bank. We don’t know how much, yet. She was accompanied by a youth, Colin Lomax. They were attacked in Higgitt’s Passage. There were three or four men involved. They sapped the boy: he’s been taken to the hospital. They shoved the girl into their car because she was chained to the handbag. They cleared off with her. They couldn’t unlock either the chain or the bag because they hadn’t time to look for the keys. The boy had them in his pocket.”

Martineau nodded. It had been more or less as he had supposed. Another car arrived, and plainclothesmen tumbled out of it. They were detectives of the County police, Granchester Division. Their leader, with a cold important frown, spoke to the constable in uniform. Then he saw the City men, and the frown deepened.

“Martineau,” he said. “What are you doing here?” Martineau was not disposed to be diplomatic about what he considered to be a triviality.

“I got here first, that’s all,” he said. “I was passing through when I picked up word about the job.”

“Picked up word from where?”

“From Granchester-City.”

“Oh.” Some doubt crept into the County inspector’s frown. “I suppose you would regard it as a City job. But the girl’s body is here, and we don’t know just where she was murdered.”

The City man could have replied that the violent act ending in murder had started in Granchester, but he refrained. He just nodded and waited. The County man was perplexed, not knowing how to handle him. He had heard things about Martineau.

“What have you done, so far?” he asked.

“Nothing, except stop people from trampling all over the place. By the way, there’s a witness. This gentleman here. It occurs to me that one of your men could be taking his statement.”

The County man nodded. His hostility had vanished. If the question of technical trespass had any importance, which he doubted, it could go in the report and be dealt with elsewhere. The job was the thing. Get on with it. He turned and gave an order, then he said: “Now then, let’s have a look.” Martineau led the way to the body. The County man took a deep breath when he saw the bruised throat and chest. “That’s nice, I must say,” he muttered angrily.

Then Martineau noticed something. He squatted on his heels and lifted one of the limp hands. There were faint greenish stains on the fingers. He lifted the other hand, and the stains were there too.

The two inspectors looked at each other, and then Martineau did a strange thing. He spat on the end of his forefinger, and rubbed the spittle on one of the girl’s fingers. The green stain showed up more clearly.

“By God!” said the County man. “Malachite green?”

“It looks like it, doesn’t it?” the City inspector replied. “If it is… What a break!”

The biggest city and county police forces of England-Lancashire, the West Riding, Birmingham, Liverpool, and a few more-hardly ever call upon Scotland Yard to help them solve their major crimes. There was no question of Granchester calling in the Yard. Granchester City Police was a big force and a proud force. The Granchester men had their own forensic scientists and their own murder specialists-of whom Martineau was one-and they were of the opinion that on their own “manor” they could do anything Scotland Yard could do.