“It’s a very serious offense to harbor an escaped convict, Mrs. Hawkins,” he said.
She did not look at him. He could see that she was trembling, and he advised her to sit down.
“Of course,” he went on, suddenly gentle, “if you had been intimidated or blackmailed, and you told us the whole story, it would put a different complexion upon the matter.”
She remained silent, but she was obviously in a torment of doubt.
“Without help,” he pursued, speaking nothing but the truth, “we shall have to make persistent inquiries. When we do that, it is often embarrassing for the people concerned. We find out all sorts of things.”
She had found a handkerchief somewhere. She twisted it in her hands. Martineau waited for her to speak.
“I didn’t do anything. I didn’t harbor him,” she said at last “He came here and just walked into the house.”
“You are referring to Don Starling, of course?”
“Yes. He said he was going to stay here for one night, and if I didn’t hide him he’d tell Gus all sorts of lies about me. I–I was afraid of him, so I hid him in the attic, and this morning Gus heard him.”
“He slept in the attic? On the bare boards?”
“I gave him two blankets, but I moved them this morning before the detectives came.”
“Did you see him hit Gus?”
“No. I was in bed. He came into the bedroom, and accused me of having told Gus. I told him he’d done it himself with making a noise. I said he’d better go quickly, in case the police came to see Gus about the murder. So he went, and Mrs. London-that’s the doctor’s wife-saw him going away from the house.”
“What time did he come, last night?”
“About five to eight.”
“Was he very hungry?”
“He made me give him a meal, but I wouldn’t say he was starving.”
“Was he dirty and unshaven?”
“Not particularly. He had a wash before his meal, but-” She remembered something. “-Yes, he did need a shave, but not too badly.”
“What was he wearing?”
She described Starling’s clothes as well as she could.
“Did he ask for money?” Martineau pursued.
“No. At first I thought he’d come for money. He said he didn’t want money.”
“You mentioned money and he said he didn’t want any?”
“That’s right.”
“Well, well!” said Martineau. “A man on the run…” He looked thoughtful. He began to pace about.
One quality of a good policeman is the ability to remember to ask all the questions which should be asked. Martineau had his share of that ability. Now he remembered to pose two pertinent questions before he asked the one which now might be the most important. But Mrs. Hawkins could give him no clue as to where Starling had been when he came to her, nor where he went when he left her.
“Too bad,” said Martineau. “Now, did you notice anything unusual about his appearance?”
“I don’t think so. What do you mean?”
“You saw him wash his hands. Did you watch him eat his meal?”
“Yes.”
“Did he have dirty, broken fingernails?”
“I didn’t notice his nails.”
“So his hands seemed to be quite clean and well cared for? As clean as mine, for instance?”
“No, not as clean as yours. His fingers were sort of stained.”
“What color?”
“Green.”
“You’re sure about the stain, and the color?”
“I’m quite sure. They weren’t as green as Gus’s, but I remember noticing them and wondering if it was the same sort of stuff he’d got on his hands.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Hawkins. Now I’m afraid I’ll have to use your phone again. Do you mind?”
She did not mind. She heard him giving the new information to Headquarters. He put some emphasis on the matter of green-stained hands. He wanted her to hear him, so that she would not forget.
4
When he had taken Mrs. Hawkins’ statement and left the house, Martineau remembered to telephone his wife. Though he had failed her with regard to dinner, he could at least tell her he would not be home for tea. He stopped at the first public telephone, but there was no answer to his call. So she was out, somewhere. He sighed. He would have to call later.
He forgot to call later.
5
About the time that Gus Hawkins was taken to the hospital, his enormous but dim-witted henchman, Bill Bragg, strolled from his home to the Brick Lane Working Men’s Club. There it was his practice on Sunday mornings to have a pint or two of beer before the normal opening time, to engage in conversation with friends, and to acquire certain information.
Bill talked a lot that morning. Because of his connection, through Gus Hawkins, with yesterday’s crime, his friends were interested in what he had to say. But at eleven forty-five he got up to go home. His Sunday dinner would be on the table at twelve noon, and he did not want to be late for the best meal of the week.
On his way out of the club he paused at the bar and quietly asked the steward a question.
“It’s a good job you didn’t ask me five minutes since,” the steward told him. “They’ve just been through on the phone. Moorcock is off. They’ve changed it to Fly Holler.”
“What’s up wi’ the Moorcock?” Bill wanted to know.
“That’s what I said, but I were told I’d fare better if I ast no questions,” the steward replied. “Are you going to the Fly?”
Bill looked through a window at a patch of sky. “I’ll see how I feel when I’ve had me dinner,” he said. “I might go, if it keeps fine.”
After dinner he was still undecided, but he made up his mind quickly when Mrs. Bragg suggested going out to tea and spending the evening at the home of her sister. The sister’s husband was a teetotaler whom Bill despised.
“No, I’m not going,” he said flatly. “I’ve got a bit o’ business on. You go, an’ I’ll call for yer tonight. My word, it’s time I were off. I’ll be late.”
So he went to Fly Hollow, which was a place named by gamblers, being about a mile away from the moorland hamlet of Fly End. He alighted from a cross-country bus at the little cluster of gray stone houses, and soon he was out of the place, walking along a narrow lane between banks of dark moor grass topped by low drystone walls. On both sides of the road were dark sloping fields, so poor that they made only the roughest of grazing for sheep.
He had walked about a quarter of a mile when he heard a motor vehicle coming along behind him. He looked round and saw that it was a taxi, with only one passenger. He was enjoying his walk and the air was bracing, but he was never a man who would walk when he could ride. He guessed that the taxi would be going to the gaming school, so he gave the hitch-hiker’s sign.
The taxi stopped, and Bill observed that it was a Silverline, and that the passenger was Lolly Jakes. He was mildly surprised, because Lolly was a poor man like himself, and he usually went to the gaming rendezvous in a bus.
Lolly’s smile of greeting was rather sour as he made room for Bill in the taxi. Just now, he wanted to have nothing to do with anybody who was connected with Gus Hawkins. But neither did he want to incur the dislike of any such person. He had decided, reluctantly, that it was better to bear Bill’s company and have him be grateful for a free ride than to have him annoyed by being left to walk.
Bill thought nothing of Lolly’s lack of cordiality. He knew that he took up a lot of room in a taxi, and people usually winced when he sat down beside them. “How are yer, Lolly?” he asked. “You at Doncaster yesterday?”
“Yer. I went,” said Lolly.
“Who’d yer go with?”
“The Duke of Edinburgh and his party.”
Bill grinned, not at all offended. “How’d you go on?” he asked. He did not really want to know. He was just making conversation.
At Doncaster Lolly had worked out an imaginary list of winning bets in case the police caught him in possession of his share of the stolen money. He had memorized the list until he had almost come to believe it himself. Now he nearly said: “Five winners,” but stopped himself in time. He did not want Bill Bragg to be gossiping enviously about him, or even thinking about him at all.