Maurice Procter - Murder Somewhere in This City

“I think you do. It’s a quarter share of the money that was taken from a poor murdered girl. But before you tell me all about it, I must warn you that anything you say will be taken down in writing and may be given in evidence.”

Gordon apparently took the caution to heart. He said nothing.

Martineau reflected, not for the first time, that the caution was needless hindrance to an investigating officer. “Search him,” he said.

The search revealed nothing which seemed to be important. There was a wallet which contained a few posed photographs of girls, a driver’s license, and seven one-pound notes. Martineau extracted the notes and put them to one side, then he picked up a small diary. He glanced through it. There were many penciled addresses, notes of calls which Gordon had made with his taxi. The writing was sprawling and childish, with much misspelling. The lad was practically illiterate.

“Your engagement book,” said Martineau, then he frowned. There were a few ruled pages optimistically headed “Bank Balance.” The pages contained one entry, with yesterday’s- Sunday’s- date against it. The entry was “£10-0-0.”

“So you got your first payment yesterday,” he commented. “You were to get yours ten pounds at a time, so that you wouldn’t flash too much money all at once.”

Gordon stared at the table. He seemed to be numb with despair.

Martineau snapped a question: “Who were the others, besides Laurie and Don Starling?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Gordon mumbled.

The inspector did not seem to be disappointed. He looked at his watch. “All right,” he said. “Take him back and let him think it over. I’m hungry, and I’m going to be home in time for my tea for once. There’s no great hurry now.” He turned to a waiting detective. “Ducklin, keep your eye on this stuff till I get back. Come on, Devery. You can run me home and then go and get a meal. We’ll clear this job tonight.”

After tea, when Martineau returned to Headquarters, he was told that Inspector Vanbrugh wanted to speak to him. “What, again?” he said. “All right, get him for me.”

Vanbrugh seemed to be remarkably cheery when he came on the line. “Hello, Martineau!” he bawled. “Any more progress?”

“A little. With the Lovett brothers.”

“Have you got ’em right?”

“It’s just possible. Laurie Lovett has green fingers. Also, we recovered the best part of a thousand quid, hidden in his garage.”

“Ha ha! You thought you’d shake me with that bit of news, did you? Well, I also have been trying to make a name for myself. I’ve been awful busy.”

“Doing what?”

“I staged a raid. On a tossing school.”

“On a Monday? I thought they only operated at week ends.”

“The big rings, yes. But on Monday afternoons there’s a smaller one. The mugs have all gone back to work and this is for the elite: those who have had a big win on Sunday, and the ponces and layabouts and half-inch bookies who want to take their winnings off ’em. When you mentioned all those names you’d got, I thought I might as well interview some of ’em myself.”

“Did you know the meeting place?”

“I found out. The taxis are the give-away. Our motor patrols had ’em spotted. The school was at a place called Chatty Clough, which is at the bottom of Chatty Hill.”

“I’m no wiser.”

“Of course not. You city denizens ought to learn more about the land we live in.”

“Get on with your tale. What did you do?”

“I got our Super on the job. He let me have all the men he could gather. Forty-two, with eight cars and two vans. We went out there and surrounded the place, and closed in.”

“Was the raid successful?”

Vanbrugh chuckled. “I’ll say it was. And the best bit of fun I’ve had in years. There was a crow on the top of the hill, and he had us spotted in no time. He want haring down the hill, waving his arms and shouting-he fell twice-and when he got to the ring you’d ha’ thought he was carrying a time bomb. What a scatter! Fellows fled in all directions. Fat ’uns, thin ’uns, bow-legged ’uns and pasty-footed ’uns. They did look funny: I couldn’t run for laughing. One bloke tried to climb a precipice that Hillary and Tensing would have balked at. Another sprinted straight into a bog, and we pulled him out as black as the ace of spades. Yes, it was a good raid.”

“How many did you collar?”

“We got the lot, thirty-one in all. A very small school. We had a good look at ’em, and took their names and addresses, and let ’em go. All except one.”

“Ah, you got something?”

“Yes, sir. It was the guy who tried to make the alpine getaway. He had about two hundred pounds in his pockets-we’re searching his house for the rest-and his hands were as green as lettuce. His name is Lawrence Jakes.”

“Congratulations,” said Martineau. “Lolly Jakes, eh? Can we have him?”

“Not without a written order from the bosses. We don’t know yet if it’s our murder or yours. But you can talk to him as much as you like. He won’t sing for me yet.”

“They’ll all sing before we’ve done. Cheerio.”

“Cheerio, old boy. You ought to try a little canter over the heather sometime. The fresh air ’ud do you good.”

“Oh, give over,” said Martineau, putting down the telephone.

He went to the interrogation room, and asked for Laurie Lovett to be brought in. He waited leaning against the table, so that his body concealed the four wads of notes from anyone who was near the door.

When Laurie entered, his glinting eyes swept hungrily from corner to corner. “Where’s my brother?” he rasped.

“Don’t worry about him, he’s all right,” Martineau replied. “He’s sitting down to think about what he’s going to say next.”

“You’re daft. The kid can’t tell you anything. He knows nowt-not me neither.”

“Well, if he knows nothing, he must have had a middling shrewd suspicion. We’ve already got Lolly Jakes.”

Laurie’s watchful eyes did not even flicker. “Who’s Lolly Jakes, when he’s at home?”

Martineau moved away from the table, and let Laurie see the wads of money which he had so recently regarded as his own. The prisoner looked at them for a moment, then returned his hard gaze to Martineau. Apart from the swift glance, not a muscle of his face moved.

“Sit down,” said the inspector, himself taking a chair. And when Laurie faced him across the table he suddenly smiled, and offered a cigarette.

“Don’t think I’m softening you,” he said, when they were both smoking. “I don’t think I need your statement. Statements by accused persons are sometimes a nuisance at a trial, and I believe I’ve got you right, without any words from you. I’ll tell you now, I’m going to prove that you were the driver of that Buick car; the murder car.”

Laurie blew smoke at him.

Martineau reached across the table and deftly took the cigarette from Laurie’s fingers, and threw it into a corner of the room. Then he went on calmly: “You made a good job of wiping off the Buick when you dumped it in the quarry, but you forgot one thing.” He paused to take a pull at his own cigarette, and said: “The driving mirror, you know. A very common omission. When you pinched the car you adjusted the mirror to your own height and then forgot about it. You left a lovely thumb print on it. At least, I’m betting it’s your print, when we come to make a comparison. Yours, or your brother’s.”

Laurie remained silent.

“We’ve got that, and this money which you hid so artfully, and your green fingers…”

Laurie did not look at his fingers.