Maurice Procter - Murder Somewhere in This City

Not far from where those men sat awake in the dark, Chloe Hawkins stood in a dark doorway in a side street. She was with a man, enjoying married life in her alley-cat way because her husband was in the hospital. As she talked with the man she wondered if she dared take him home for the night. The man-who anticipated satisfaction there and then, having no intention of going anywhere with her-was wondering too, how long she was going to chatter, and what his wife would say when he went home so late: feeling guilty when he thought of his wife.

Not far away too, Lucky Lusk was drinking her nightcap (a cup of tea) and thinking about Harry Martineau. He had no children. All was fair when a man had no kids. If his wife couldn’t hold him, that was her lookout. If Martineau came tomorrow, would she go all the way with him? Could she do anything else? He would regard her invitation as a promise. Any man would. Well, she wanted him. She had wanted him for a long time. I won’t be able to help myself, she thought. I must have him. I’ll keep him if I can. I never had a man who was worth a damn.

Also in the heart of the city, where he had not ventured since Saturday morning, Don Starling was settling in his night’s hiding place. He was well content with the place, and with himself. Of the six men who were concerned in the murder of Cicely Wainwright, he was the only one who could escape from thoughts of the hangman. That was because he was still at liberty, and also because he was different from the others. They had remained, figuratively, immobile, hoping to avoid discovery. He had kept on the move to evade pursuers.

And in spite of pursuit he had done what he set out to do. Beside him, within reach, was a small fortune in gems. He knew where to dispose of them-at a fraction of their value, unfortunately-and the money they raised would be all his. It was hard lines on the mob, but they shouldn’t have gone and got themselves locked up. He could hardly be expected to share with them when they were in the hands of the police. And anyway, he needed the money himself. He had a long way to go.

There was just one thing. Martineau. He had promised to kill that clever sarcastic devil. Killing Martineau couldn’t make matters worse. In fact, it would make them better. Many people who despised him for killing a girl-the Lord knew he hadn’t intended to kill her-would admire him for rubbing out a police inspector whom he had previously warned. And those who didn’t admire him would be scared silly of him. That would help, too.

But, simply for the double satisfaction of enhancing his reputation and making an end of a man he hated, the gesture of killing Martineau was too risky. Martineau, he remembered, was fly, very fly. Stalking him would be dangerous. It was no use taking a chance on losing everything just for the pleasure of closing an account with an old enemy.

No, no use at all. Starling was firm on that point. No use making changes now. It was all laid on. Wait here until eleven in the morning, then sneak out and go round to Sammy Toy’s place. It was no use going before eleven, because Sammy couldn’t be depended on to start work until then. He was a wizard mechanic, but slothful. He bought cars and overhauled them and sold them, making a good living that way.

He always had a roadworthy vehicle of his own: a little car or a van. He did not know it yet, but he was going to transport his old friend Don Starling out of town. Not through the police road checks, but around them. The police hadn’t enough men to block every back alley leading out of Granchester. Sammy would know how to get through. He was used to avoiding the police when he drove unlicensed purchases home.

Outside Granchester there would be checks on the main roads, but Sammy knew the byways. He would get through. His friend Don would give him a tenner to keep him sweet. A tenner to drive somebody a score of miles to Liverpool. Sammy wouldn’t grumble. Sammy wouldn’t dare grumble because his friend Don would show him a gun.

In Liverpool dwelt the man who would buy hot sparklers. The same man would also know how to buy a new identity, the identity of an ordinary seaman or steward. At least, Starling had heard that this could be done. Some chief steward or bo’sun would be bribed, and he would get a place on a ship. Once safely out of Britain-that damned difficult place to get out of-he would land at a foreign port and assume yet another identity, that of an American. There were thousands of Americans abroad. If he met any real Americans, he would pretend that he was an American born and bred in England. It would work out all right. He, Don Starling, was capable of making it work out. Yes, it would be all right. It had better be.

It couldn’t go wrong now. Look what he had done. Got out of Pontfield Prison as clean as a whistle, got a gun, organized a job and got nine hundred nicker (it was a pity that girl had to go and die) and this evening he had rounded it off by picking up the Underdown loot. That had been a good job well done. All the time he had eluded the police. He’d given ’em the dummy proper. The police, the police, the bloody police, Martineau leading on. They hadn’t had a smell of him. They never saw which way he went.

Starling lay in the darkness considering his uncomplicated plans, while around him the heart of the city pulsed more quietly as midnight approached. The sober crowds had dispersed to their homes, and only the denizens remained; the denizens, and the few who did not want to go home, and the very few who had no homes. He could hear the city’s night sounds, and they were familiar to him: an occasional rushing car, the whir of curtains being drawn across open windows, the click of a streetwalker’s cheap shoes, the hoarse bray of adolescent male laughter, the slurred voices of passing drunks in endless reiterative argument. He thought, with knowledge, of the adulterous embracing all around him; the whisky frisky, sherry merry, brandy randy, ginerous embraces. He grinned in the dark. That was life, as he liked it. That was the city, as he knew it.

Three miles away, in the suburbs of the city, Julia Martineau was knocking on the bedroom floor with her shoe, and swearing softly; her husband was moving away from the piano. The last knock was followed by the first whir of the telephone bell.

“No, I’m not in bed,” said Martineau. “Why? What’s up?”

It was Detective Constable Ducklin on the phone. “It’s a queer affair at the Royal Lancaster Hotel,” he said, with the unction of one who knows he is doing himself a bit of good. “On account of the connection with Don Starling and the Underdown job, I thought I’d better tell you about it.”

“You did right to tell me. Go on.”

“Well, it seems they keep a cellarman on duty till eleven o’clock. He signs off at the same time as the wine waiters. At half past ten a guest who was throwing a little party asked for some particular sort of wine; some sort of champagne. The waiter phoned the cellar, and got no reply. He thought the cellarman had dodged off home before his time, so he went looking for the wine himself. He found the cellarman trussed up. He’d been hit on the head. He doesn’t know who hit him, or what with. We can’t tell yet if there’s anything missing. The manager has sent for the head cellarman, the old Frenchman, whatsisname, François.”

“Very good,” said Martineau. “I’ll be with you as soon as I can. I want a car. At once.”

“I took the liberty of sending a car, sir,” said Ducklin, obviously taking great pleasure in his own forethought. “It should be there any minute.”

“Right,” said Martineau, and rang off. He was waiting at the gate when the car arrived.

When he walked into the Royal Lancaster Hotel he found Ducklin making much of what he called “the mystery.” The detective’s mystification was supported by François and the manager, a Swiss called Weiss, both of whom raised their hands, shoulders and eyebrows in complete lack of understanding.