Maurice Procter - Murder Somewhere in This City

Julia was asleep. She breathed deeply and evenly. He supposed, tolerantly, that there were faults on both sides. Then a new thought came to him quite suddenly. He wished she would leave him. There was no love in the house. He wished she would go. He wanted a fresh start.

She hadn’t even asked him if Don Starling had been caught: Starling who had declared himself his mortal enemy. But perhaps she didn’t feel afraid of what Starling might do. He didn’t himself, for that matter.

He thought: I wonder if Starling has found himself a snug roost for the night.

When he parted from Martineau in the Green Archer, Devery did not go to a cold supper, or a cold welcome either. He went to a comfortable flat above an old-established furniture shop in Little Sefton Street, where he received a kiss from a girl, a nod from an old man, and a steak pudding from a warm oven. As he sat down to the meal he rubbed his hands and beamed his delight, because they were apt to do things by signs in that household. The girl smiled fondly when she saw how he was enjoying the food. The old man nodded again and grinned.

The old man’s name was Dick Steele, and for forty-five years he had owned and run the furniture shop-which had four floors and was big enough to be called a warehouse-in a reasonable and old-fashioned way, so that he was not rich and not poor. He was a small man, who had been sturdy. He was a little forgetful nowadays, and yet always ready to recall the past. Throughout that part of the city he was known as Furnisher Steele.

The girl was his only grandchild. Her name was Sylvia, but with the perversity of those who will speak as they wish and not as they ought, the old man had never bothered to pronounce the name correctly. He called her Silver, and so did everybody else.

Silver Steele was a natural blonde of Technicolor brilliance. She was a picture. And still following the movie-blonde tradition she was beautiful but dumb. Unfortunately, she was deaf as well, and had been for all of her twenty-one years. She had never heard a sound in her life, and as an adult person she never uttered one. But her remaining senses were alert, and she had a brain in her head. She kept a well-run home for her grandfather, and made her way easily and efficiently in a soundless world. She had a sweet disposition. People liked her and said it was a shame, but she neither needed nor wanted pity.

“Marvelous!” said Devery as he put down his knife and fork. Silver read the word on his lips. She smiled, and began to clear the table. He went to his armchair-he was so much at home that he had his own chair-and presently she came and sat at his feet, learning with an arm on his knee.

While Devery ate his supper, Furnisher Steele had been silent. Generally he was garrulous, rambling on about unimportant matters. And as a rule he was avid for information of the sort which can only be obtained from a member of the police force. Within the limits of discretion Devery usually indulged him in this matter, and tonight, with a murder case only a few hours old, he wondered a little because the questions did not come.

“I suppose you’ve seen the paper?” he said.

“Aye, I’ve seen it,” was the short reply. Then: “Has Don Starling been caught yet?”

Devery shook his head.

“Then it’s time he was!” came the sharp retort. “You’re letting one man take the lot of you for a ta-ta. I thought the police reckoned to be so clever.”

Devery’s surprise increased. The old man was usually more respectful than critical of the police.

“We’re doing our best,” he said. “Every policeman in England is on the lookout for him. We’ll get him, all right.”

He reflected that Furnisher’s interest in Starling was not unnatural. He had followed the criminal’s career ever since the night, some ten years before, when he had broken into the furniture shop. “He came here as nice as pie,” the old man had said many a time. “He said he was looking for a sideboard, and he looked all around. He even looked at me antiques upstairs. Said he’d think about it. Then he came back at night and broke in.”

“What’s on your mind?” the detective queried. “Surely you don’t think that Starling might come here again? He won’t do that. He’ll keep away from the places where he’s known. He won’t want to be seen.”

“I don’t like him being out,” was the stubborn reply. “He’s a dangerous man. He’ll do somebody an injury.”

When Furnisher made that remark he looked at Silver, and Devery wondered if in some queer way he imagined that the fugitive could be a danger to his granddaughter. It was absurd. What possible motive…? The ideas some of these old people get into their heads!

“What about Inspector Martineau?” the old man followed up. “Is he worried because you can’t catch Starling?”

He was really inquiring about the state of Martineau’s nerves, because Starling had declared-before judge, jury, press and public-that he would kill Martineau. He had made the announcement at the Assizes two years before, after he had been given a fourteen-year slap in the face by the judge. Because of the long prison term, the threat had not been taken seriously. But now Starling was at large, and people were remembering it.

“Martineau isn’t worried,” said Devery. “He can handle Starling.”

“Can he handle a bullet in his back?” asked Furnisher, and Devery smiled. To get close behind his enemy, unseen, the hunted man would have to spend a lot of time waiting around: more time than he could afford in a city where he was known to many people.

The two men talked a little while longer, but Furnisher did not regain his normal cheery mood. Soon he announced that he was going to bed. “Don’t keep that girl up too long,” he said.

When he had gone, Devery moved over to the settee with Silver. They sat close together. He squeezed her a little and kissed her, that was all. Though he desired her greatly-and he was no more straitlaced than the average young man-an unrecognized touch of chivalry prevented him from making importunate love to a girl who could only resist in desperate silence. And now he could afford to wait. They were to be married in a few weeks.

Apart from the times when her physical nearness affected him, Silver was peace. She did not need to be entertained with constant talk, either vocal or manual. She was content just to be beside him. Devery was aware of that, and he liked it. Her continued silence never bored or irritated him. In her company he realized how often normal people talk just to hear the sound of voices.

He had met Silver in unusual circumstances. It was one of those things which could only happen to a policeman. It occurred during his last tour of night duty, in uniform, before he was transferred to the detective staff. Finding the front door of a five-story office building standing wide open after midnight, and seeing a light on the top floor, he went to investigate. As he ascended the dimly lighted stairs he heard a continuous strange noise, and he was unable to decide what made it. Swishuffle, swishuffle, swishuffle. A hundred women with a hundred brooms? Two elephants having a sparring match? Somebody dragging something very heavy?

As he climbed, each landing became progressively more shabby and each locked office door less ornate. On the top floor, whence came the noise, there was only one door, labeled G.S.D.D.P. He knocked and received no answer. He opened the door and entered cautiously, and found himself in a large bare room, and in the presence of some two hundred people. They were dancing, in silence, in time to the movements of one man who stood on a dais, holding a conductor’s baton.

The dancing stopped, and two hundred people stared at Devery in silent embarrassment, as if they had been caught acting the fool in secret. Only one person smiled. She was a lovely blonde girl who happened to be near the door. Devery was embarrassed too, and he returned the girl’s smile with gratitude. He realized that he had stumbled upon a scene which was not for his eyes: a private revel of afflicted people. He said: “Oh, sorry,” rather foolishly. Then he touched his helmet to the company, took one more good look at the smiling blonde, and hastily got out of there. As he went down the stairs he muttered: “Gad, what a smasher! What a beauty! What a pity!”