A Gun for Sale

       'Smart work, boys, smart work,' the Chief Constable said, swallowing the last of his whisky. 'I'll be off home. Busy day before us all tomorrow. You'd like a conference with me in the morning, I dare say, super?'

       'Oh, I don't think we'll trouble you that early, sir.'

       'Well, if you do need any advice, I'm always at the end of the 'phone. Good night, boys.'

       'Good night, sir. Good night.'

       'The old boy's right about one thing.' The superintendent put the whisky away in his cupboard. 'We can't do anything more tonight.'

       'I won't keep you up, sir,' Mather said. 'You mustn't think I'm fussy. Saunders will tell you I'm as ready to knock off as any man, but there's something about this case... I can't leave it alone. It's a queer case. I was looking at this map, sir, and trying to think where I'd hide. What about these dotted lines out here on the east?'

       'It's a new housing estate.'

       'Half-built houses?'

       'I've put two men on special beat out there.'

       'You've got everything taped pretty well, sir. You don't really need us.'

       'You mustn't judge us by him.'

       'I'm not quite easy in my mind. He's followed someone here. He's a smart lad. We've never had anything on him before, and yet for the last twenty-four hours he's done nothing but make mistakes. The chief said he's blazing a trail, and it's true. It strikes me that he's desperate to get someone.'

       The superintendent glanced at the clock.

       'I'm off, sir,' Mather said. 'See you in the morning. Good night, Saunders. I'm just going to take a stroll around a bit before I come to the hotel. I want to get this place clear.'

       He walked out into the High Street. The rain had stopped and was freezing in the gutters. He slipped on the pavement and had to push his hand on the lamp standard. They turned the lights very low in Nottwich after eleven. Over the way, fifty yards down towards the market, he could see the portico of the Royal Theatre. No lights at all to be seen there. He found himself humming, 'But to me it's Paradise,' and thought: it's good to love, to have a centre, a certainty, not just to be in love floating around. He wanted that too to be organized as soon as possible: he wanted love stamped and sealed and signed and the licence paid for. He was filled with a dumb tenderness he would never be able to express outside marriage. He wasn't a lover; he was already like a married man, but a married man with years of happiness and confidence to be grateful for.

       He did the maddest thing he'd done since he had known her: he went and took a look at her lodgings. He had the address. She'd given it him over the 'phone, and it fitted in with his work to find his way to All Saints Road. He learnt quite a lot of things on the way, keeping his eyes open: it wasn't really a waste of time. He learnt, for instance, the name and address of the local papers: the Nottwich Journal and the Nottwich Guardian, two rival papers facing each other across Chatton Street, one of them next a great gaudy cinema. From their posters he could even judge their publics: the Journal was popular, the Guardian was 'class'. He learnt too where the best fish-and-chip shops were and the public-houses where the pitmen went; he discovered the park, a place of dull wilted trees and palings and gravel paths for perambulators. Any of these facts might be of use and they humanized the map of Nottwich so that he could think of it in terms of people, just as he thought of London, when he was on a job, in terms of Charlies and Joes. All Saints Road was two rows of small neo-Gothic houses lined up as carefully as a company on parade. He stopped outside No .14 and wondered if she were awake. She'd get a surprise in the morning; he had posted a card at Euston telling her he was putting up at the Crown, the commercial 'house'. There was a light on in the basement: the landlady was still awake. He wished he could have sent a quicker message than that card; he knew the dreariness of new lodgings, of waking to the black tea and the unfriendly face. It seemed to him that life couldn't treat her well enough.

       The wind froze him, but he lingered there on the opposite pavement, wondering whether she had enough blankets on her bed, whether she had any shillings for the gas meter. Encouraged by the light in the basement he nearly rang the bell to ask the landlady whether Anne had all she needed. But he made his way instead towards the Crown. He wasn't going to look silly; he wasn't even going to tell her that he'd been and had a look at where she slept.

2

A knock on the door woke him. It was barely seven. A woman's voice said, 'You're wanted on the 'phone,' and he could hear her trailing away downstairs, knocking a broom handle against the banisters. It was going to be a fine day.

       Mather went downstairs to the telephone, which was behind the bar in the empty saloon. He said, 'Mather. Who's that?' and heard the station sergeant's voice, 'We've got some news for you. He slept last night in St Mark's, the Roman Catholic Cathedral. And someone reports he was down by the river earlier.'

       But by the time he was dressed and at the station more evidence had come in. The agent of a housing estate had read in the local paper about the stolen notes and brought to the station two notes he had received from a girl who said she wanted to buy a house. He'd thought it odd because she had never turned up to sign the papers.

       'That'll be the girl who gave up his ticket,' the superintendent said. 'They are working together on this.'

       'And the cathedral?' Mather asked.

       'A woman saw him come out early this morning. Then when she got home (she was on the way to chapel) and read the paper, she told a constable on point duty. We'll have to have the churches locked.'

       'No, watched,' Mather said. He warmed his hand over the iron stove. 'Let me talk to this house agent.'

       The man came breezily in in plus fours from the outer room. 'Name of Green,' he said.

       'Could you tell me, Mr Green, what this girl looked like?'

       'A nice little thing,' Mr Green said.

       'Short? Below five-feet four?'

       'No, I wouldn't say that.'

       'You said little?'

       'Oh,' Mr Green said, 'term of affection, you know. Easy to get on with.'

       'Fair? Dark?'

       'Oh, I couldn't say that. Don't look at their hair. Good legs.'

       'Anything strange in her manner?'

       'No, I wouldn't say that. Nicely spoken. She could take a joke.'

       'Then you wouldn't have noticed the colour of her eyes?'

       'Well, as a matter of fact, I did. I always look at a girl's eyes. They like it. "Drink to me only", you know. A bit of poetry. That's my gambit. Kind of spiritual, you know.'

       'And what colour were they?'

       'Green with a spot of gold.'

       'What was she wearing? Did you notice that?'

       'Of course I did,' Mr Green said. He moved his hands in the air. 'It was something dark and soft. You know what I mean.'

       'And the hat? Straw?'

       'No. It wasn't straw.'

       'Felt?'

       'It might have been a kind of felt. That was dark too. I noticed that.'

       'Would you know her again if you saw her?'

       'Of course I would,' Mr Green said. 'Never forget a face.'

       'Right,' Mather said, 'you can go. We may want you later to identify the girl. We'll keep these notes.'

       'But I say,' Mr Green said, 'those are good notes. They belong to the company.'

       'You can consider the house is still for sale.'