Maurice Procter - Murder Somewhere in This City

He lit a cigarette as he walked across to the group of men, and both the policemen looked hard at his opened right hand as he threw the match away. The hand was dirty; the grime on the balls of the fingers might have had a faint greenish tinge, but there could be no certainty about it.

It was Devery who spoke first.

“Passing Clouds,” he said in a slightly mocking tone.

The remark drew everyone’s eyes to the cigarette. It had a distinctive oval shape. The young driver flushed and glanced at Laurie Lovett. Then he said to Devery: “What about it? What’s it got to do with you what I smoke?”

No further reference was made to the cigarette. But the thought was in Martineau’s mind: A young fellow who might be expected to smoke Woodbines at two-and-seven for twenty was smoking Passing Clouds at a price somewhere in the vicinity of four shillings. Increased earnings would be unlikely to make a young taxi driver go for that type of cigarette, but sudden unaccustomed money might.

“Is this your young brother?” he asked of Lovett. “He looks a bit like you.”

“He’s my brother.”

“What’s his name?”

“Gordon.”

Acting on an impulse, Martineau addressed the youth. “All right, Gordon. I want you to come to the police station with me. I’m going to ask you one or two questions.”

“About what?” Laurie snapped.

“About what he was doing on Saturday, for a start.”

Gordon’s face was red. “I’ve done nowt,” he cried. “You can’t pull me in when I’ve done nowt.”

“Suspicion, Gordon, suspicion. We can arrest without warrant on reasonable suspicion that a felony has been committed. Just weigh that up.”

Gordon did not pause to weigh it up. “What felony?” he demanded in a high voice.

“Murder.”

“Bloody rubbish!” Laurie interjected. “You can’t accuse that lad of murder. And you don’t take him in without me.”

“All right,” said Martineau agreeably. “You come along as well. We’ll wait till you’ve washed your hands.”

Laurie glared at him, then he strode into the garage. Devery followed him casually; hands in pockets, staring around.

“You got a search warrant for this place?” the taxi proprietor demanded curtly, as he cleansed his hands.

Devery grinned. “Not yet,” he said.

“Then get out!” Laurie snarled. “This is private property.”

“All right,” said Devery. He drifted a few paces toward the door, still keeping Laurie in view.

“‘Get out,’ I said!”

“Sure.” Devery moved one pace.

Glowering, Laurie dried his hands. Perhaps he also did some hard thinking. He strode past Devery and said to Martineau: “I’ve changed my mind. I’m not coming with you.”

“And I’ve changed mine,” said the inspector. “You’re the one I’m taking in.” For Devery had taken his hands from his pockets. He was holding them up, and tapping the fingers of one hand with the forefinger of the other.

“You’re taking me in!” Laurie exclaimed. Then he asked: “You’re letting the kid go?”

“No. I’m taking him too. He can keep you company.” Laurie looked as if he were going to fly at Martineau. But the inspector had a reputation. Men who flew at him usually regretted the action. The taxi man had to content himself with a bitter protest. “It’s a lousy deal,” he said. “You coppers don’t seem to realize that a man has his living to make. Who’s going to repay me and the kid for our lost time?”

“Write to your Member of Parliament about it,” said Martineau. “Come on, get into this car!”

“Just a minute. I’ll have to lock up the garage.”

“I’ll send some men to lock it up,” the inspector replied.

“Yes,” Devery added. “They’ll have a search warrant, too.”

At Headquarters Martineau left the two brothers in separate rooms, under guard. As they were parted, Laurie said: “Tell ’em nothing, kid,” and Gordon nodded, but he looked so nervously preoccupied that the message did not seem to register in his brain. His wild absent look told the experienced C.I.D. man that his thoughts were scurrying around in his head like rats in a cage. And rats are not conspicuously bothered by fellow feeling. They seek a way out for one, leaving others to follow if they can.

There was a message for Martineau. Inspector Vanbrugh had been trying to reach him on the phone. He remembered how helpful Vanbrugh had been, and he called him up at once.

The County man sounded impatient. “What’s going on?” he demanded. “I hear you’ve made an arrest.”

“We’ve picked up two brothers called Lovett,” said Martineau cautiously, “but there’s no charge yet.”

“Do they keep a pub? I thought it was somebody who kept a pub.”

“Oh, him!” said Martineau. He told Vanbrugh about the list of names he had obtained from Doug Savage. “The whole thing started with the theft of a bookmaker’s money,” he concluded. “The horse-racing angle has been there all the time, and gaming school types are usually interested in racing.”

The explanation was unnecessary. Vanbrugh had been fully aware of the sporting aspects of the case. Nevertheless, he listened without comment. He seemed to be very thoughtful when he rang off, and he did not ask for any of the names which Savage had given.

Martineau sent a search crew, with a warrant, to the house where Gordon Lovett lived with Mr. and Mrs. Laurie Lovett. He and Devery, with another warrant, returned to the taxi garage. They searched the place thoroughly, and the last thing they examined was a dusty, battered old spare taxi which looked as if it were waiting to be dragged away by a wrecker.

They found nothing in the body of the car, but Devery was not satisfied to leave it. He had been puzzling over the significance of four pistons which he had fished out of a pail of dirty paraffin. He tried to start the car, and found that it had no battery. Then he tried turning over the engine with a starting handle.

“This thing’s like a hurdy-gurdy,” he said. “There isn’t a ha’porth of compression. I think they’ve taken the pistons out.”

Martineau looked at him thoughtfully. “We’d better have a look,” he said.

The cylinder head block was not screwed down very tightly. They removed it, and found that the four cylinders were stuffed with wads of greaseproof paper. Each wad contained a thick roll of paper money: many one-pound notes and a number of fivers.

“The bees an’ honey,” said Devery coolly, concealing his elation.

“You’re a good boy,” replied Martineau, not to be outdone in imperturbability. “Handle it carefully. Fingerprints, you know. You’ve heard of fingerprints.”

“Malachite green too,” said the younger man. “There should still be traces of it.”

Back at Headquarters, the rolls of money were placed on the table in the interrogation room. Then Martineau sent for the younger Lovett. He had been too long a policeman to be sentimental about the fraternal feelings of thieves and murderers, and he had no qualms about using the evidence of one brother to hang the other, if the other were guilty.

When Gordon was brought to the room, with a certain amount of grim ceremony, he looked as if the short period of waiting in custody had not been good for him. His face was pale and his eyes were dark. He was jumpy and apprehensive.

“Sit down,” said Martineau, indicating the chair which faced him. “Nobody’s going to hurt you-yet.”

Gordon sat, and tried not to look at the money on the table.

“We found it,” said Martineau. “Your hiding place wasn’t good enough.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the young man replied, now looking at the money in preference to looking at the inspector.