Clay was big, stout and very shrewd. Martineau respected his shrewdness. Still, he contradicted him. “Of course we know,” he said. “He has no contacts anywhere but here.”
“That we know of,” Clay amended. “If you want to look for Starling you can do it in your spare time, and you’ll have precious little of that. Just now, go and see what Gus Hawkins has to say.”
So Martineau and Devery went to Gus Hawkins’ office, but on the way they stopped to look at the scene of the crime. Higgitt’s Passage was an alley which connected a quiet street of offices with a busy main street of shops, banks, airline offices, shipping offices, hotels, et cetera. It ran from Gaunt Street to Lacy Street. Gus Hawkins’ office was in Gaunt Street, a mere three minutes’ walk from Lloyd’s Bank in Lacy Street.
The passage itself was like the shorter bar of a T, the longer bar being the back street between that part of Lacy Street and Gaunt Street. The attack on the boy and girl had occurred at the junction of the two bars of the T.
Martineau spoke to the detective sergeant who was in charge of inquiries there. “Any developments?” he asked.
The sergeant pointed to a small plain van which was parked in the back street.
“That,” he said. “We’ve just found out it’s been stolen. It belongs to a greengrocer out at Highfield. He goes to market with it every morning, then he leaves it behind his shop till shutting-up time. He’s busy serving in the shop. Didn’t even know it had been pinched.”
“You think it was used on this job?”
“We’re guessing it was. One or two of ’em could have hid in it, and jumped out at the right moment.”’
“Where was the Buick?”
“Right here, as far as we can tell. A woman in one of these back rooms heard a scream. She thinks there was only one scream. She ran to the window and saw the car full of men dashing off along the back street. She said there seemed to be a bit of confusion in the back seat. But she didn’t say anything at all till she was asked. Silly bitch. Lost us nearly twenty minutes.”
Martineau gazed around. His glance settled on a small, old public house whose windows looked along the back street. It was a secluded place for a pub, and the pub itself was unobtrusive. Its faded sign bore the words THE PRODIGAL SON FREE HOUSE, and above the door a small board announced that Hannah Savage was licensed to sell ale, porter, wine, spirituous liquor and tobacco. The attack on the boy and girl had taken place right outside the door of the Prodigal Son.
“Doug Savage’s place,” said Martineau reflectively.
The sergeant nodded significantly.
“Of course, it wouldn’t be open at eleven o’clock,” the inspector went on. “Have you talked to Doug?”
“Aye. And his mother. And the cleaning woman who was there. Like the three wise monkeys, they were. Hear nowt, see nowt, say nowt.”
Martineau sighed. “Too bad,” he said, and to Devery: “Come on. We’ll go and have a word with Gus.”
The sole occupant of Gus Hawkins’ office was a middle-aged clerk who was doing his best to cope with four busy telephones. Gus was a strictly legal bookmaker. He employed no runners, and he did no ready-money betting except on the racecourse, where he did a great deal. His connection in the city and on the course was considerable, and his reputation as a bookie was unspotted. On the telephone clients could make bets with him to win thousands of pounds, without a qualm about his ability and willingness to pay.
The clerk, Peter Purchas, seemed upset; even nervous. The effort and responsibility of running the office alone on a big race day seemed to be too much for him. “I can’t hedge none o’ these bets,” he found time to moan when he saw Martineau. “I’m too busy to balance. Gus’ll have to stand ’em. We might lose a fortune.”
Martineau remembered that it was St. Leger day. He had intended to back a horse called Empire Honey. Well, it probably wouldn’t win.
“Where is Gus?” he asked. “Gone to the races?”
“Aye, he went. But police is going to stop him and turn him back. He should be here any minute.”
“What time did he set off?”
“Just afore eleven. Just afore Cicely and the lad started for the bank. And here’s me on me own. I don’t know what to do about these bets.”
Martineau could not advise him. He lit a cigarette and went to the window, and stood looking down into the street. His presence, and Devery’s, seemed to worry Purchas, who kept shooting glances at him and muttering: “Wish Gus ’ud be quick.”
Soon after one o’clock Gus arrived. He was followed into the office by Bill Bragg, the ex-wrestler who was his errand lad and “minder.” His clerk, Lomax, father of Colin, had gone on to the hospital to see the injured boy.
Gus was a short, plump, bespectacled man of guileless appearance. His wit and acumen were not apparent until he opened his mouth. He was a good man, keenly aware but tolerant of the sins of the world: a hard man with a welsher and a soft man with anyone who was really down on his luck.
Bragg, the man who stood behind him looking over his head, had a face not only expressionless, it was incapable of expression. It was like the front door of a bombed-out house; the front door to nothing. He had a splendid physique run to seed, and a brain which retired in confusion from any problem too difficult for a fairly clever child of eight.
“Hello, Inspector,” Gus said at once. “What a do! Those poor kids… Poor little Cicely… I shouldn’t have sent ’em with all that money… But, a lot or a little, it makes no difference to a thieving murderer.”
A telephone rang. Gus stretched his short legs to cross the room. He snatched up the phone, listened a moment, and said: “Sorry, I can’t take any more bets today. One of my staff has died suddenly. Try Benny Solomons; Benny’s all right.”
As he finished speaking another phone rang. Zealously, Bill Bragg reached it first. “No more betting,” he growled. “Somebody’s dead.” And he banged down the receiver.
“Bill, get away from that phone!” Gus shouted, and the big man backed off, looking hurt. The bookmaker spoke to Purchas: “No more bets. Leave the receivers off. I can’t take bets with that poor lass lying dead.”
He turned to the policeman. “Any clues, or anything?” he asked. “Any idea who did it?”
Martineau shook his head. Then he said: “What’s the matter with your hands?”
Gus looked at his hands. The fingers and palms were stained bright green.
“I don’t know what it is,” he said, “I noticed it this morning when I got out of the bath. I suppose I handled that many pound notes at Doncaster yesterday, some of the green ink must have come off on my hands. I’ve never known it happen before, though.” Then his mouth fell open in dismay. “Oh hell! Has somebody been passing me a lot of snide money?”
Martineau ignored the question. “Did you have a good day?” he asked.
“A marvelous day. Best in years. I never knew such a turnup for the book. I don’t mind telling you, I made over four thousand quid.”
“And you sent four thousand to the bank this morning? Most of yesterday’s winnings?”
“Correct. We celebrated a bit, after the races: Bill here, Stan Lomax and me. We got home late, and I was tired and maybe not just as sober as a driver should be. Anyway, instead of calling at the bank and putting the money in the night safe I dropped Stan and Bill and went straight home. Believe it or not, I left the money in the car and forgot to lock the garage door, and didn’t remember it till this morning. I deserved to have the whole lot pinched. I wish it had been pinched, then those kids ’ud be all right now. Poor little Cicely! I wouldn’t have had this happen for forty thousand, never mind four.”
“Who counted the money this morning, before it was sent to the bank?” Martineau asked.
Gus looked slightly surprised. “Oh, there was four thousand all right,” he said. “I counted it first, then Cicely counted it and put it in the bank bag. Then I set off to Doncaster, leaving her to see that it got to the bank.”