A minute later the expected lingerer emerged, still buttoning his flies, and hastened after his friends. Starling waited until there was no wayfarer near enough to recognize him, then he crossed the street and went through the doorway under the sign.
He climbed the wooden stairs carefully. There were three flights, because the billiard saloon was on the top floor of the building. He peered through a glass-paned door, and saw old Bert Darwin, who ran the place, busily pulling sheets over the tables.
He chuckled “Good old Bert,” pushed the door gently, and slipped sideways through the opening. He flitted unseen to the open door of Bert’s office, and entered. There was a chair and a roll-top desk. He sat down, and lit the cigarettes he had bought in Leeds.
Bert finished covering the tables. He came into the office, whistling softly. He stopped whistling and his mouth fell open when he saw Starling. Starling grinned at him.
“’Lo, Bert,” he said.
“Er, hello, Don. I never saw you come in.”
“Neither did anybody else. I shall be staying here till morning.”
“Nay, Don, you can’t do that. Suppose-”
“Suppose nothing. You lock the place up safe, see? I’ll stay here as quiet as a mouse. You’ll leave me a key, and I’ll let myself out in the morning. Nobody’ll ever know I’ve been here. You won’t know yourself if you choose to forget it.”
“I can’t let you stay here. The police-”
Starling was on his feet. “You can and you will,” he said.
“All right, Don, all right. But for God’s sake be careful.”
“I’ll be careful. By the time the bogies get the rumor I’m here, I’ll have been in five other places, all different. You mind you lock up safe, that’s all.”
“I’ll lock up, all right. H-here’s my spare key.”
“Thanks,” said Starling, pocketing the key. He threw a florin on the desk. “You used to sell a few sweets. I’m hungry. Give me four bars of plain chocolate.”
With fumbling fingers Bert unlocked a drawer and took out the chocolate.
“Right. That’ll be all,” said Starling. “Good night, Bert.”
“Eh? Oh sure. Good night, Don.”
Bert was at the office door when Starling spoke again. “Oh, and, Bert,” he said quietly. “Don’t get any fancy ideas in connection with coppers, will you?”
Bert was shocked, and hurt. “Nay, Don!” he reproached. “I’ll admit I don’t like having you here, but that don’t mean I’ll go running to the bogies. What do you think I am?”
“I don’t think anything, I just want you to remember what’s good for you. If the law finds me here tonight, you’ll be looked after. My friends’ll look after you. They’ll bash your crown in.”
Bert went without further speech, and Starling quietly followed him down to the door to make sure it was locked. He tried the fire door too, and found it secure. Presently he would lie on the upholstered bench which ran around the walls of the big room, but at the moment he was content to sit in the dark and make plans.
The thing to do was to get some ready money-it never occurred to Starling that this was almost a universal problem-and then go after the stolen jewelry which he had hidden two years before. He had various schemes for raising money: he had had time to think about that. For what he had in mind he would need some mates. Arrangements would have to be made. Well, there was the telephone.
“In the morning, Don,” he said to himself. “In the morning, just before you skip out of here.”
7
The billiard saloon was opened at ten o’clock every weekday morning. Having made a telephone call, Don Starling quitted the place at five minutes to nine, when the streets were thronged with hurrying city workers. He was keenly alert for the quick stare of sudden recognition, because today his picture was in the papers, but nobody noticed him as he made his way to Pasture Park. It was a fine, warm morning after yesterday’s thunderstorm, and he sat in the sunshine on a bench in a secluded corner of the park. Life was good. He read about himself in a newspaper, but his hard glance was often raised to look above the paper. The price of freedom is eternal vigilance.
At half past eleven, when the pubs opened, he sought surroundings better suited to his temperament. But by an exercise of his considerable will power he did not drink much, and the taverns he patronized were small places where neither he nor his friends had ever been customers.
During his solitary watchful drinking he considered his plans. His phone call had set the ball rolling. He had contacted the man he wanted and set him to work. Tomorrow he would meet the man, and in the meantime he would have to avoid the police. He had no illusions about the police: they would be very, very busy looking for him. That bastard Martineau would be running around like a scalded cat. Well, there were a number of possible hiding places. The thing was, could he avoid boredom? Boredom made a man careless.
He needed companionship, and he needed a woman. “For two years I’ve been like a parrot in a cage,” he reflected. He glanced around the small bar lounge where he was sitting. It was not the place to look for his sort of woman.
The haunts of loose and lively women were the haunts of people who knew Don Starling. And they were the places where the police would be looking for him. Would he take the risk? A faint smile flitted across his face when he imagined the awed glances, the nudges and whispers, which his presence would cause. Maybe he would be able to pick up a little chicken who wanted some second-hand notoriety. Maybe he would find himself consorting with a red-hot young love-weed smoker. The thought stirred him.
He remembered some of the women he knew. Lucky Lusk would still be at the Lacy Arms. But he had never gone very far with Lucky, and now she would want to keep half the length of Lacy Street away from him. There were others with whom he had been more successful. Among them Chloe Barber, Gus Hawkins’ wife. A wicked little piece, Chloe. It might be a good thing to get in touch with her. He would have to think about it.
Thinking about it, he had a substantial meal in a transport workers’ café, and then he did not want any more drink. What now? The restful gloom of a cinema? A lovely day like this? Still undecided, he wandered back to the park.
He did not return to his original seat. He went to the other end of the park, to a quiet corner with a bench which had its back to the wall. A woman was sitting there, and he would have passed on, but she looked up and smiled. He sat down on the bench; not too near to the woman, not too far away for friendliness.
“Nice day,” he said very casually, so that he did not risk a snub.
“Ooh, it’s lovely, isn’t it?” she replied, in the accent of the working millions of Granchester and district. Her tone and manner put him immediately at ease.
He knew just how to impress her. Bringing out his cigarettes, he asked: “Do you mind if I pollute the air with tobacco smoke?” His assumed accent was rich and rounded enough to be described as fruity. Privately, he thought of it as “Oxford and Cambridge.”
“I don’t mind at all,” she said. “I do like to see a man enjoying his cig.”
“How about you? Will you try one?”
She hesitated. “Well, I don’t smoke much. An’ not out o’ doors…”
“Do have one. There’s nobody to see you.”
She accepted a cigarette and a light. She had already studied him as he approached, and now she puffed daintily at her Gold Flake and gave him a chance to look at her. A Hausfrau, he thought. Typical. About thirty-eight years old. Not bad looking, not badly dressed. Not a bad figure, either. A bit hippy, but not bad. “She’ll do to be going on with,” he decided.
They talked. Her name was Dora Fenton. She had a completely ordinary mind. She was childless, and her husband was a steel erector. He was usually away during the week. He was away this week on a job at Morecambe. He would work overtime on Saturday, and get home in time to spend Saturday evening with his friends. Not with his wife who had been alone all week, mark you, but with his friends at the club.