Maurice Procter - Murder Somewhere in This City

Sitting at the desk he laid his head on his arms.

His slumber had an uneasy, distorted background. He dreamed. He was a boy late for school, and all kinds of obstacles prevented him from getting there. At the same time, somehow, he was a youth transporting money for the bank, and he could not get the money to its destination. Also, apparently, he was a young constable on a beat, and he was unable to be at the right places at the right times.

When he awoke, the room was quite dark. He sat up and shivered, though the place was still quite warm. He sneezed, and came fully awake. Yawning, he found the switches and turned on the lights. He looked at his watch.

“That’s torn it,” he said. The time was five minutes to eight.

He rubbed sleep from his eyes with a handkerchief. He straightened his tie, and smoothed his hair with his hand. “The drink,” he said ruefully. He sneezed again. He had no headache, but his mouth was as dry as the inside of an ashcan.

The drink had got him into trouble again. Himself, the responsible, successful police officer, had behaved like a willful, will-less sot. Julia would be furious, and, to be honest, she would be justified in her anger. He had behaved like a fool. This was truly Don Starling’s day.

“I feel shocking,” He said, and wet his lips. He could think of one cure for his condition. A hair of the dog. A hair of the tail of the dog that bit you. A double whiskey, then a glass of beer to slake that dry tongue. It was no use going home: not until closing time. He would stay on the booze and forget Julia; and, maybe, forget what day it was.

There was a mirror on the desk, used by his predecessor to see who entered the room without turning in his chair. He examined his reflection. “Chief Inspector Martineau, Your Worship…” he said. “Gad, what a bright sample you are!”

He got his hat and coat, picked up the Gazette file, and turned off the lights. There was only one plainclothesman in the main C.I.D. office, and he stared open-mouthed when Martineau emerged from a room which had apparently been unoccupied. Martineau grunted, “Here you are,” and gave him the file, and walked out of the office.

For two hours he wandered from bar to bar, pouring liquor into his depression. The liquor only dulled the edge of his uneasiness. He argued with himself, and occasionally his lips moved, and people who noticed looked at him curiously.

At ten o’clock he knew that he was not, and would not be, visibly drunk. He was in the soberly reckless state which is beyond ordinary intoxication. He could still converse fluently and, in everyday matters, sensibly. He was unhappy, and he did not care what happened, and yet a part of his mind kept him aware that closing time would be a good thing for him.

It was about ten o’clock, in a tavern called the Maid of Athens, that two men approached him glass in hand. The leader of the two spoke politely but breezily-a strong breeze from far Kentish hopfields-but his companion was a picture of quiet alcoholic misery.

“Excuse me speakin’ to yer, Inspector,” said the confident one. “My friend here could do with a bit of advice. He’s havin’ trouble at home.”

Martineau sighed, and glanced around the bar at the examples of married manhood. “Aren’t we all?” he said.

The man laughed immoderately, though his friend only stared glumly. Martineau waited stolidly for details of the complaint. The breezy one stopped laughing too quickly, and said: “Ar, but this is serious. My mate here, he can’t trust his wife. She’s proper fly. He don’t know where she is half the time. He seen her once, gettin’ inter a taxi with another feller, an’ she denied it was her. Pointblank denied it! That’s right, i’n’t it, Lionel?”

Lionel nodded glumly. “Tha’s right, Willie,” he said.

“What can yer do with a woman like that, Inspector?” Willie wanted to know.

Martineau cast around in his mind for a suitable noncommittal reply. He remembered that Julia would be very, very angry. To hell with her, he thought.

“I’ve told him what ter do,” said Willie. “Put her in the family way, before somebody else does. If yer want ter stop a pigeon from strayin’, put a cock with it.”

Martineau grinned. “I’ve heard worse advice than that,” he said.

“Yers, lots worse,” said Willie in wholehearted agreement. “I don’t have no trouble, I can tell yer. I’ve got three sons at home. They’re three little imps o’ Satan, but I wouldn’t sell ’em for three million quid.” He paused and thought about that, then he improved on it. “I wouldn’t sell ’em for three million, but I wouldn’t give yer thruppence for three more of the same sort.”

Lionel shook his head doubtfully, and Willie looked at him in exasperation. “Well, Mr. Martineau’s told yer, hasn’t he?” he demanded. He thanked the policeman for the advice he had not given, and led his mournful friend away.

Martineau watched them go. “When in doubt, put somebody in the family way,” he murmured, and ordered another drink.

It was a fine cold night, and as the crowds moved along under the lights of Lacy Street their breath showed like horses’ breath in the frosty air. When he had quitted the Maid of Athens, Martineau sauntered among them, with no destination in mind. His gait was quite steady, and he was able to respond with every appearance of sober urbanity to the respectful greetings of the policemen he met.

He wandered on. He did not know what he wanted, but he knew what he did not want. He did not want to go home.

A girl spoke to him. She was standing in shadow at a corner. “Where you off to, love?” she asked.

He stopped, astonished. Most of the street women knew him by sight, and those who did not were quick to guess at his occupation. They usually managed to keep out of his way. This one, perhaps, was a newcomer.

She looked up into his face. “My word,” she said shrewdly. “You’ve had a drop tonight.”

“True,” he agreed. “Too true.”

“I can give you a good time,” she said. “Come with me.”

“Where to?”

“A place I know. It’s not far. We don’t need a taxi. We can walk it in three minutes.”

“I haven’t any money,” he said.

“That’s what they all say. What about three pounds? It’ll be worth it.”

He considered the girl. She was dark and pretty, and quite young. She was smartly dressed and she looked respectable. How hard or how far was the step from respectability to the oldest profession in the world? Neither hard nor far, he suspected. Most of the girls were in that game because they liked it, or at least because they had liked it in the beginning. How would this girl be? Curiosity was the only feeling he had about her.

“All right,” he said, somewhat to his own surprise.

She took his arm. Immediate affection. “This way, love,” she said. They walked along the side street.

“What’s your name, love?” she asked. “Or what shall I call you?”

“Lionel,” he said. And to himself he said: “This is a proper mug’s game.”

“Lionel. That’s quite nice,” she said. “My name is Anne Marie.”

“Did your parents call you that?”

“Well no,” she admitted. “It’s a sort of professional name. You can’t get anywhere with Annie.”

She laughed and looked up into his face. They were passing the lighted window of a snack bar. She looked again, and her mouth formed a startled O. “Ow! You’re Martineau!” she said in a fright, and she released his arm and ran away.

He gazed after her stolidly. He was not amused, but neither was he disappointed. “The social handicaps of being a prominent copper,” he mused as he returned to Lacy Street. “The leper of the law.”