PART III
1
The stolen Buick used in the Cicely Wainwright murder was not found abandoned on the same day. This was rather a surprise for Martineau, and on Sunday morning, when the car was still missing, he began to entertain a cautious hope that it had been hidden in some place which, when found, would provide a clue to the identity of at least one of the felons.
The search for the Buick was an issue second only in importance to the search for green fingers. Martineau phoned Detective Inspector Vanbrugh of the County Police and talked the matter over with him.
“I’m strictly ethical today,” he said finally. “I’d like to make some inquiries in the County area, and I’d welcome the cooperation of one of your officers.”
“Will I do?” asked Vanbrugh.
“Thanks very much,” said Martineau. “I’ve got a car. I’ll pick you up in five minutes.”
In a Jaguar, with Devery driving, Martineau and Vanbrugh took the road to Boyton and the moors.
“Have you any particular place in mind?” the County man wanted to know.
“No,” said Martineau. “I want to follow the road past the place where we found the girl, and see what there is.”
“I’ll tell you what there is. Miles and miles of damn all. Except the Moorcock.”
“There’ll be a few isolated farms, I suppose.”
“Just a few. And some even more isolated reservoir keepers’ cottages. It won’t take us long to visit the lot, if the farm roads are good enough for this luxury wagon of yours.”
“I’ve heard about the Moorcock. Maybe we can call there.”
“Sure we’ll call,” said Vanbrugh. “Our men have been there, of course, but it won’t hurt the Moorcock people to have another visit.”
Soon the car was climbing toward the place where Cicely Wainwright’s body had been found. It was a fine morning, but there was a strong cool wind blowing across the hills. Traffic was sparse. In four miles the men in the police car saw only three cars, one bus, and two taxicabs. The cabs, and two of the cars, were packed with men, and the men were not of a type which would normally be seen riding in taxis. Vanbrugh frowned when he saw them.
“They’re going the wrong way,” he said. “There’s no place for a gaming school nearer the city than this.”
“The schools move around, don’t they?” Martineau remarked. “A different place every Sunday.”
“They profane the Sabbath in a number of places, and they use them on an irregular rotary system. They don’t often use the same place twice running.”
“Who decides?”
“The organizer. A man called Broadhead, we think. He gets a small commission for keeping the ring and paying the crows. He’s supposed to keep out welshers and twisters, too, but I imagine that’s impossible.”
As a City policeman, Martineau had no experience of big open-air gambling schools. But, among policemen, he had heard some talk of them. Now he wanted to hear more.
“Big money changes hands, doesn’t it?” he asked.
Vanbrugh explained that in the game where a man spun two halfpennies and tried to make them both alight “heads” upward on the ground, hundreds of pounds were often wagered on one throw of the coins. As in the more socially elevated game of Baccarat, winning players were inclined to leave both stakes and winnings in the ring, “doubling up” again and again in the hope of achieving the well-nigh impossible, a run of “heads” which would win all the available money of fifty or sixty gamblers in the ring. Starting with a one-pound stake and leaving all winnings on the ground, players had been known to “head ’em” eleven consecutive times in their efforts to “skin the ring.” And not all these nervy players were eventual losers. More than two thousand pounds lying in the ring was sometimes too much for the collective gambling spirit of the school, and the challenge would be only partly met. When the nervy one finally “tailed ’em,” he might not lose more than a quarter of his winnings.
“What about the sharps who can palm the coins and throw with two-headed ones?” Martineau queried.
“All that is taken care of,” Vanbrugh replied. “There’s a paid man called a putter-on. The man who’s making the toss holds two fingers out, close together, and the putter-on lays the coins on his fingers. After that, he simply throws them up. They spin together in the air, and they usually land showing two heads or two tails. If there’s one head and one tail, it’s a void throw.”
“How often do you raid a tossing school?”
“Very seldom,” said Vanbrugh. “You need a lot of men for that. Besides, those types will gamble somewhere, so they might as well be up on the moors out of harm’s way. We don’t bother much unless a school gets too big, or unless we get complaints of disorder and annoyance to people walking on the moors.” He pointed to some rising ground on the left of the road. “There’s a little disused quarry up there. It’s one of their places. It’s like all the others, very hard to approach without being spotted by the crows. There’s usually four or five of ’em, spread out in a wide circle. They pick the high places where they can see all around and they have field glasses.”
“You’d need fifty men to surround the place and close in,” said Martineau.
“Yes, and you’ve also got to prove that they were gambling,” the County man agreed. “More trouble than what the job is worth.”
The road became level at the height of the moor, and Martineau saw a little inn standing lonely on the edge of a desolate plateau.
“That’s the Moorcock,” said Vanbrugh, “and I see they’ve got customers.” He indicated three taxis and one old car which stood beside the inn.
Devery stopped the car, and the three men alighted and gazed around.
“It’ll be a bit bleak in winter,” Martineau commented. He looked at a narrow, sandy moorland road which crossed the main road at an angle. “Where does that go?” he asked.
“To the north, nowhere,” answered Vanbrugh. “It peters out at a farm. To the south, it passes a couple of ruined farms and finally joins the Huddersfield road.”
He returned his attention to the taxis. “I don’t understand this,” he said. “These people wouldn’t be here at this time if they hadn’t come to toss ha’pennies in the old quarry. And yet we saw those other clients going away from it.”
“Happen there’s been a change of plan,” Martineau guessed.
“You mean, some of ’em came here, then found they’d come to the wrong place? It could be. This lot here could be a few more of ’em, just having a drink before they move on. I think I’d better take down their numbers, just in case.”
“I’ve got the numbers, sir,” said Devery.
“Good man!” said Vanbrugh. He looked at his watch. “Five past twelve. The place is officially open. We’ll try an odd glass of ale, shall we?”
They entered the Moorcock, passing through an inner doorway into a small bar. Nearly a score of men crowded the place, and there was a hubbub of talk. The talk ceased as the newcomers were observed, and there were some furtive glances at the clock behind the bar. Some of the men knew Martineau, others knew Vanbrugh
They made their way to the bar and Martineau ordered half pints of beer. Vanbrugh saw a man he knew, and he said: “How do, Tinker. No school today? Or is it a break for refreshment?” The man grinned and said: “What school, Inspector? If you mean Sunday school, I give over when I was twelve.”
While this brief conversation went on, men were finishing their drinks and leaving the premises. As the door swung behind each departing group, cars could be heard starting up. Martineau smiled. “We’re ruining trade,” he said.
The landlady left the bar and went through into the kitchen. The landlord remained, watching the exodus of customers with an expressionless gaze. He was a small, thin man with a sharp, high-colored face. He looked as if he might have been a retired jockey-retired or warned off.