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“I’m sorry we’ve driven off your customers, Alf,” said Vanbrugh, though he did not look sorry.

Alf shrugged. Operating outside the licensing laws as he often did, he could not afford to quarrel with Vanbrugh. “It can’t be helped,” he said without rancor. “It was only passing trade, anyway. They’d soon a-been going.”

“This is Inspector Martineau of Granchester City force,” said the County man. “We’re making inquiries about that murder yesterday.”

Alf’s glance shifted. “Ah, a bad do,” he said. “A bad do for Gus, too.”

“You know Gus?” Martineau interposed.

“Sure, I know Gus. He always calls when he passes this way.”

“Did you see anything of an old Buick car yesterday morning? About opening time, maybe.”

“I saw in the paper they was looking for a Buick,” said Alf, and again his eyes shifted. He seemed to be trying to signal a warning. Martineau turned casually to look at the remaining customers. There were only four of them. Three of them were beery, raffish types; the fourth was a young taxi driver, not much more than twenty years old. The driver was drinking lemonade, the other three were drinking pints of ale. Martineau could associate the pint swillers with gambling, but not with yesterday’s crime. They were too bloated and flabby and, he thought, too old. Probably Alf’s alarm was due to his own fear of being heard telling the police anything at all.

But Alf had something to tell. “Excuse me,” he said. He dodged quickly out of the bar, and went into the kitchen. He returned in a very short time. “Just something I had to tell the wife,” he apologized. Then he winked at Vanbrugh.

“There was nowt much stirring up this way yesterday,” he said. “You’ll be lucky if you find out.” Then rather pointedly he turned away and began to collect empty glasses.

The three policemen drank their half pints of beer. They said “Good day” and went outside. Now on the parking ground of the inn there were only the police car and one taxi. There was also the landlady standing at the side door. She beckoned, with an air of haste and secrecy. Vanbrugh and Martineau went to speak to her.

Breathlessly she said her piece: “My husband says to tell you summat’s scared ’em away from t’owd quarry today. He doesn’t know what it is, except they’re keeping away. They’ve nearly all gone someplace else.”

They thanked her. “We’ll go and have a look at the quarry,” said Martineau to Devery as they got into the car.

When Vanbrugh said: “About here somewhere,” they left the Jaguar and climbed the rough rising land. The place they sought was carved into the side of a little hill, and had been left in the form of a small basin with half of its rim broken away. It had never been a commercial quarry; it was merely a place where, in the past, upland farmers had quarried stone to build barns and drywalls. Beneath the little cliff which had been made, there was a flat sandy place. It had been trodden hard, and it was littered with old used matchsticks and cigarette ends. But, when they found the place, they did not immediately notice the telltale rubbish. The first thing they saw was a prewar Buick car.

“Ah,” said Martineau. “So this is what scared the gamblers.”

“Yes, and how the devil was it brought here?” Vanbrugh demanded.

While they looked at the car, Devery walked on. He returned and reported that there was an old cart track on the other side of the quarry.

“It runs into the lane which comes out near the Moorcock,” he said.

He was sent to find a telephone, and the two inspectors followed the cart track down to the lane.

“I expect they switched cars somewhere around here,” said Martineau.

Vanbrugh’s glance swept the deserted lane. “A right place to do it,” he said. “But some country body might have seen something. We’ll have further inquiries. I’ll see to it.”

They went back to the quarry, to the abandoned Buick.

“Well,” said Martineau. “It’s a start. This’ll give the fingerprint boys a bit of something to do.”

2

Chloe’s sleeping pill did not prevent Gus Hawkins from awaking at his usual time on Sunday morning. He opened his eyes and became aware of the stiff breeze out of doors. The trees in his garden were waving to him.

He yawned and stretched. “It looks like a cool wind,” he said, comfortably aware that he did not have to get up and go to the office.

Chloe did not hear him. She had lain awake a long time listening for noises overhead, and now she slept heavily. It was Gus who heard a noise; a faint tinkling sound. He frowned. It occurred to him that the wind had loosened a tile on the roof.

He got up and had a quick bath, and put on some old flannels and a sweater. He went downstairs and put the kettle on, and while he waited for it to boil he went outside and walked to the end of his back garden. He looked up. The roof tiles appeared to be in regular pattern; none displaced. He walked to the front gate. The tiles on that side too were quite in order.

There was a very small skylight window in the roof. While he was looking up, he saw a brief flutter of movement behind the glass. He smiled. That was it. Another small bird had got in. Once he had found a dead starling in the attic. He never knew how it came to be there, but the poor thing had got in somehow and, unable to get out, it had starved to death. Well, a bird in the attic was better than a loose tile on the roof. He had only to go up and open the skylight, and it would fly out.

He went back to the house and brewed the morning tea. He carried a cup upstairs for Chloe. She awoke when he entered the bedroom. She lay still, looking at him drowsily.

“Cupper tea, love,” he said. Then: “I think there’s a starling in the attic.”

She sat bolt upright, staring open-mouthed. Her face was sickly white. The cup rattled in the saucer as she mechanically accepted it, and some of the tea was spilled. “Wha-what?” she stammered.

He grinned. “There’s another starling got into the attic. You’re not frightened of a bird, are you?”

She achieved a weak smile. “Well, they flutter around, don’t they?”

“I’ll go and let the poor thing out,” he said.

“No, don’t bother just now,” she said quickly. “Come back to bed, darling.”

He seemed slightly surprised. She guessed that she was not looking her best. She pouted, and stroked and patted his pillow, and wriggled impatiently.

“She wants him to come back to bed right now,” she whispered.

“You haven’t got the sleep out of your eyes,” he said, and went out onto the landing.

“Gus! Come here!” she called, in a panic.

“All right,” he said. “In a minute.” He was holding the cord and letting down the loft ladder.

She sat listening, speechless with apprehension now.

Gus climbed the steps. When his shoulders reached the level of the attic floor he received a hard blow on the head, from above and behind. He fell forward onto the steps, slithered down them, and lay crumpled at the foot.

3

Gus Hawkins was knocked on the head at about ten o’clock. The police were informed at half past, by his doctor. At two o’clock, four hours after the incident, Martineau was casually told about it by a C.I.D. clerk when he returned to Headquarters from the old quarry on the moors.

“Hawkins?” he said, immediately interested. “What happened?”

“His wife called the doctor and said he’d fallen down the attic steps. When the doc got there he found she hadn’t done a thing for Gus except try to pour brandy into him while he was still unconscious. I understand she’s one of the helpless type; a charming nincompoop.”

Martineau nodded. “She’s a bad little bitch,” he said.

The clerk, being a policeman, was neither surprised nor shocked. “Is zat so?” he said. “Well, the doctor lives just across the road from Gus, and, from upstairs, the doctor’s wife saw a man leave the house rather hurriedly while the doc was actually taking the phone call. She told the doctor, and he mentioned the man to Mrs. Hawkins. She said she never saw any man. She was in bed when the accident happened, she said.”