He left her then, with a reminder that he would post some men to he in wait for Don Starling. He thought it quite possible that the hunted man, with no place to go, might call at Lucky’s house again. By intimidation he had forced her to help him once, and he would expect to be able to do so a second time.
Then, deep in thought, Martineau drove slowly back to Headquarters. “I’d better take Devery the next time I go to see Lucky,” he decided. It was obvious that she expected him to call again, and without Devery.
He pondered, with some inward excitement, about Lucky. Would he go to see her again, without Devery? It was a delicious temptation. She was certainly attractive. Quite lovely, really. And she was a good girl. Or at least, she wasn’t a bad one. She had been unfortunate: she had never had a man who was any good. She had been a good wife to the wastrel who married her. Fortunately she hadn’t had any children by him. What sort of a mother would she have made?
9
At Headquarters, Martineau heard some interesting news. A man with green fingers had been brought in for interrogation. And the man was Doug Savage, unofficial landlord of the Prodigal Son Inn.
At that moment, Martineau was informed, Savage was being put to the question by Superintendent Clay. The interview was taking place in a bleak, windowless, nearly soundproof room at the far end of the C.I.D. office. The room went by various names, the most common of which were the Torture Chamber, the Sweating Room, and the Bank Manager’s Office. But any torture practiced there was purely psychological. The aspect of the room itself was a help to detectives. Suspects had a feeling that they were shut off from the free world, in a place where anything could happen.
Martineau said: “Doug Savage with stained hands?” and frowned. He had talked briefly with Savage a few hours after the crime, and at that time his hands had been quite clean. Moreover, he had an alibi.
“I’d better go along there,” he said, and as he went he reflected that some of the dusted money might have been passed to Savage over the bar in his pub, simply to pay for drinks.
He entered the interrogation room. It had a bare concrete floor, white-tiled walls and an off-white ceiling, because it was really an uncompleted washroom. The only articles of furniture were a table and four chairs in the center of the floor, and a small desk and a chair for a shorthand writer in one corner. Clay and Doug Savage were seated facing each other across the table. A burly detective stood behind the equally burly innkeeper, another detective stood beside the door, and a clerk sat at the desk.
Clay looked up when Martineau entered. It was a surly, irritable glance. Evidently the interview was not going well. Savage looked surly too, and wary; but not yet nervous.
“Hello, Inspector,” said Clay, and he rose. “Come outside a minute.”
Outside the room, Clay said: “I’ve got to see the Chief now, so I’ll turn Savage over to you. All we’ve got on him are his green fingers, and he won’t admit a thing. Won’t say a word except ‘Why have I been arrested?’”
“Have you drawn his attention to his green fingers?”
“No,” said the superintendent. “I never mentioned his fingers. You please yourself. I’m off now. He’s all yours.”
Martineau returned to the room and sat in Clay’s chair. For some time he sat in silence, considering Savage, looking him up and down. The innkeeper was a big young man. He was quite handsome in a swarthy, bull-necked way. But in spite of his dark skin he always looked very clean and well turned out. This morning he was dressy-elegant with an ineradicable touch of vulgarity-in a well-pressed gabardine suit, a nylon shirt and a bright silk tie, for he had been picked up while doing some shopping in Castle Street.
“Have a cigarette, Doug,” said Martineau at last.
“Thanks,” said Doug, taking a Player’s from the proffered packet. “So you’re going to try the soft stuff.”
“Call it that if you like,” Martineau rejoined. “I’m going to give you the chance to show you’ve got some sense.” He was looking at the other man’s hand as he lit the cigarette for him. The green dye on his fingers was in faint small blotches and streaks. Considering that in all probability there would now be much less of the dry powder on the stolen money, it looked as if Doug had handled more than one or two of the stolen notes, though he may not have handled a great many. It looked as if he had been in contact with someone who had had quite a lot of the money. Within the last thirty-six hours he had met and probably spoken to one of the murderers of Cicely Wainwright.
“All right, get cracking,” Doug challenged. “I’ve been here too long already.”
Martineau mentally reviewed Doug’s record. It was a record of violence and dishonesty, but not a record in which those two criminal characteristics ever appeared together. Doug’s offenses were disorderly conduct, assault on police, obstruction of police and malicious wounding on the one side, and many cases of fraud on the other: fraud connected with black market, with racing and football, with the money and property of the various people who had been unwise enough to enter into trade with him. He was an incorrigible “twister,” as untrustworthy as a starving mongrel. It was fortunate for him that his mother’s inn was a free house, so that he could not defraud any brewer who had the power to throw him out. And his mother knew him too well to let him take more than small amounts from her.
But he was not a thief in the exact meaning of the word: he did not commit larceny. And he was never violent in cold blood, for the sake of gain. As a criminal, Doug had little in common with a man like Don Starling. The two disliked each other.
Martineau thought: Doug is innocent, and he feels very virtuous and indignant. It makes a nice change.
He said: “I saw you on Saturday, and you told me you’d seen nothing of the crime which happened right outside your pub. You said you knew nothing about it.”
Doug nodded. “That’s correct.”
“But now we have some evidence which implicates you.”
“So I’m told. You’d better show me this evidence.”
“We’re not going to show you. Not yet, anyway. But the evidence is there.”
“Nay, Inspector! I thought you’d have more sense. You expect me to believe a tale like that?”
“For your own good you’ll believe it.”
“The well-known phrase! When the hell did a copper ever worry about what was good for anybody but himself?”
Martineau grinned. “Not often,” he said. “And I’m not worrying now. You’re the one who needs to worry.”
“You once told me an innocent man never needs to worry.”
That made Martineau pause. “A shrewd thrust, Doug,” he said. He wondered how on earth he was going to get information from this man, this intelligent man, who had been taught from boyhood that he must never tell the police anything. There was only one way: convince him if possible of the honesty of police intentions, and then put the fear of God into him.
“An innocent man doesn’t need to worry,” he said, “if he’s prepared to maintain his innocence by giving a full account of his actions.”
“Ah, you mean you want me to open my mouth and put my foot in it. Having no evidence against me, you want me to give you some.”
“How can you, if you’re as innocent as you say?”
“I don’t know. I’m not taking any chances.”
“Listen, Doug,” said Martineau. “How long have you known me?”
“Too long.”
“Have I ever tried to fix you for something you didn’t do?”
“You’ve walloped me a time or two,” replied Doug reminiscently, and with a certain amount of respect.
“I’ve walloped you when you were being a rough boy. I’ve never laid hands on you to make you admit anything.”
“I dare say that’s true,” was the reluctant answer.