“Listen, Don Starling,” he said, reverting to his native dialect. “Anybody round ’ere ’ull tell thee I’m a man o’ my word. I ’ave a gun, an’ I’m not too old to use it. If thee or thy pals comes anywheer near my gran-child BY GOD I’LL SHOOT YER! I’ll be right close beside ’er till tha’s bin caught, an’ that won’t be long.”
There was a long silence, and Furnisher wondered if the other man had rung off and failed to hear his words. But Starling answered at last, and his tone had changed.
“So you won’t frighten, old man,” he said. “I like a fellow with some guts. Since you’re a man of your word, I’ll make a bargain with you. Say nothing to anybody about this phone call, and I’ll leave you and the girl alone. What about it?”
Furnisher thought about that. Stalling was a vicious man and a resourceful man. Look how he was still eluding the police! It was no use asking for trouble, and the information wouldn’t be a great deal of use to Devery.
“All right,” he said. “It’s a bargain. I’ll say nowt. I’ll keep my word, and I’ll have my gun handy in case you don’t keep yours.”
“Fair enough,” said Starling, and rung off. Later, Furnisher was plagued with curiosity. What had Starling wanted him to do? Now he would never know. “Aay dear,” he sighed. “I talk too much.”
11
At half past seven the manager of the Lacy Arms answered his telephone. “Central, double three double five,” he said efficiently.
He heard a curiously hollow voice: “Is that the Lacy Arms? Sorry to bother you on Saturday night, but I’d like to speak to one of your barmaids, Mrs. Lusk. It’s rather important.”
“Who’s that speaking?” the manager demanded.
“This is Mr. Lusk, her ex-husband. On urgent family business.”
“Oh, all right,” said the manager. “I’ll get her.”
“That article!” said Lucky Lusk, when she was informed of the call. “I haven’t heard of him for three years. I know what his urgent business’ll be. He’s hard up!”
“Shall I tell him you’re too busy?” the manager suggested.
“No, I’d better speak to him,” she said, and in spite of her harsh words she approached the telephone with feelings of curiosity and mild anxiety. “Hello, Chris, you there?” she asked.
She heard a chuckle, and a voice she knew. “Mention no names, honey, because this is Don, your dream man.”
She was taken aback. “Wha-what do you want?” she stammered.
“First of all I want to tell you I’m a desperate man. Old friends who won’t help me in my hour of need will get carved up. I mean carved up. Around the face and other important parts, you know.”
As plainly as if he were there she could see Starling’s curiously hot brown eyes, and the slight sneer which would be on his face when he talked in that manner. He was like some corner boy acting tough. Except that he was tough.
But she had recovered her poise. “You’ve been drinking,” she said.
“Not a drop.” The tone changed slightly. “I mean what I say. I want you to do me a very small service, and then keep quiet. You know Gus Hawkins?”
She did. And she had also read the evening paper.
He accurately guessed her thoughts. “Oh no,” he said convincingly. “Don’t mix me up with a murder. I have enough to do keeping away from the coppers as it is. I’m on the run, Lucky.”
“A man like Gus Hawkins wouldn’t have anything to do with the likes of you,” she said. “What do you want with him?”
“He can help me. He won’t be feeling so good about things, but he can still help me. I don’t want to go to his house till I know he’s at home, and just now I think he might be in the Stag’s Head, celebrating the bad day he’s had. I daren’t go there myself, but it’s only three minutes’ walk for you. If you’ll go and look, you’ll save me a journey.”
She was doubtful. It was all rather pat, rather specious.
“I can’t leave here on a Saturday night,” she said.
“I meant what I said about being desperate,” he reminded her. “I’m not going to argue with you. If you won’t do it for old times’ sake you’ll do it to save your bonny face. Now go on, you bitch, and do as I say! I’ll ring again in eight minutes. When you get back from the Stag you wait right there by the phone, so’s I don’t have to talk to your boss again. Understand?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Then get on with it!” he snarled, and rang off. Almost blind with rage, she went back to the bar. The pig, the dirty pig, to talk to her like that! She hoped the police would catch him and flog him! She had half a mind to go back and dial Central one-two-one-two, and tell Martineau.
In the bar, the manager looked at her with concern. “Bad news?” he asked.
“I’ve got to slip out for five minutes, Mr. Rose,” she said. “I won’t be longer than that.” For in spite of her anger she was afraid. Don Starling had threatened to slash her face. She did not think he would do it, but he might do it. He really was desperate: she knew that. He had not spoken like the Don Starling she used to know.
The Starling of two years ago would have tried normal persuasion first. He would not have spoken roughly until she had definitely refused to help him. But today he had started with a threat, even though it was such a small favor that he asked. A ridiculous thing, really. Go along the street on a trivial errand, or I’ll disfigure you. The man had lost all sense of proportion.
He distrusted everybody, that was it. He wanted to frighten everybody so that they wouldn’t dare to tell the police. Well, he’d frightened her, all right. She wasn’t going to tell. She had troubles enough.
Lucky’s thoughts carried her along Lacy Street. Daylight was just beginning to fade, and the street with its lights, its colored signs and its shop windows glowed up into the darkening sky. The roadway crawled with traffic. The sidewalks were crowded with Saturday night strollers, and she threaded and dodged through them automatically. A policeman standing on a corner nodded and spoke to her. A cinema doorman, looking slightly seedy in a brilliant uniform as cinema doormen often do, stopped shouting the price of seats to say: “Hello, Lucky. Thirsty work. I could do a beer right now.” She smiled and answered, without listening to his words or knowing what she had said to him. She felt sick and worried. Suppose something went wrong, and Don Starling thought it was her fault?
She went into the Stag’s Head, looked around, and came out. And it almost seemed as if Starling had been watching her movements, because the Lacy Arms telephone rang as soon as she got back to it.
“Well?” Starling asked.
“He’s in the grill, just sitting down to a meal,” she said.
“You’re sure of that?”
“Well, he’s eating cantaloupe, and all the cutlery is still on the table. So I suppose he’s just starting.”
“No champagne?”
“I never saw any.”
“Is he alone?”
“Yes.”
“Thanks, Lucky. Sorry I had to get rough with you. I was on edge, I guess. No hard feelings?”
“You keep your distance in future, that’s all,” she said. “I’m not your woman, and I never was. Just keep away from me, that’s all I want.”
Starling laughed. “Bye-bye,” he said, and rang off.
12
Ten minutes after he had stepped out of the telephone box, Starling walked boldly up the little drive of Gus Hawkins’ house. He had been there many times before. He went round the house, and smiled when he found that the back door was unlocked. He entered quietly, and looked around, and listened. He heard somebody moving upstairs. “She’s getting ready to go out,” he decided.
He waited near the foot of the stairs. There was an evening paper on the hall table. It looked as if it had not been opened. He did not touch it: he had already seen a copy.