The car was a middle-aged blue Austin with a taximeter in the usual place near the edge of the windscreen. The bonnet was raised, and Laurie Lovett in shirt sleeves was stooping over the engine. When the police car stopped behind him he turned his hard, thin face to see who had arrived. Then he went on with his work.
Martineau and Devery got out of the police car and went over to him. Without speaking, they watched him work for a little while. His hands and his muscular forearms were quite covered with black grease.
Lovett was the first to speak. He stood erect and began to wipe his hands with cotton waste. “What’s up now?” he asked in an unfriendly tone.
“One or two things,” said Martineau. “I’m looking for Don Starling, and I’m also looking for his mates in last Saturday’s little job.”
“I know what you mean. The murder. Why come to me?”
“You’re a taxi man. You get around.”
“Plenty of other taxi drivers too. They get around an’ all.”
“That is so. But your name gets mentioned.”
“Ah. Who mentions it?”
“Who’s likely to?”
“How the hell do I know?” Lovett demanded. He had been busy with his hands, seemingly intent on wiping off the thick oil, but now he looked up, and his eyes met Martineau’s bleak gray glance. The inspector did not like him; did not like the look of him at all. Why had he selected this man to be one of the first on Doug Savage’s list? He remembered now. Lovett had been unable to take Savage’s party to the races at Doncaster. He had had another engagement. With whom?
Before the question could be asked, another taxi came into the yard. It was driven by a young man of twenty or twenty-one. Martineau recognized him as the young driver who had been in the Moorcock Inn at noontime on Sunday.
The young man’s glance shifted quickly from Martineau’s, and he called out: “Owt come in, Laurie?”
“No,” said Laurie. “Off you go down to the rank.”
“Right,” said the youth, but Martineau called sharply: “Just a minute! I want you.”
“Who’re you?” was the truculent demand.
“You know well enough who I am. Come here!”
For a moment it seemed that the youth would disobey, and Devery made a move toward the police Jaguar. That settled the matter. The newcomer got out of his taxi.
He lit a cigarette as he walked across to the group of men, and both the policemen looked hard at his opened right hand as he threw the match away. The hand was dirty; the grime on the balls of the fingers might have had a faint greenish tinge, but there could be no certainty about it.
It was Devery who spoke first.
“Passing Clouds,” he said in a slightly mocking tone.
The remark drew everyone’s eyes to the cigarette. It had a distinctive oval shape. The young driver flushed and glanced at Laurie Lovett. Then he said to Devery: “What about it? What’s it got to do with you what I smoke?”
No further reference was made to the cigarette. But the thought was in Martineau’s mind: A young fellow who might be expected to smoke Woodbines at two-and-seven for twenty was smoking Passing Clouds at a price somewhere in the vicinity of four shillings. Increased earnings would be unlikely to make a young taxi driver go for that type of cigarette, but sudden unaccustomed money might.
“Is this your young brother?” he asked of Lovett. “He looks a bit like you.”
“He’s my brother.”
“What’s his name?”
“Gordon.”
Acting on an impulse, Martineau addressed the youth. “All right, Gordon. I want you to come to the police station with me. I’m going to ask you one or two questions.”
“About what?” Laurie snapped.
“About what he was doing on Saturday, for a start.”
Gordon’s face was red. “I’ve done nowt,” he cried. “You can’t pull me in when I’ve done nowt.”
“Suspicion, Gordon, suspicion. We can arrest without warrant on reasonable suspicion that a felony has been committed. Just weigh that up.”
Gordon did not pause to weigh it up. “What felony?” he demanded in a high voice.
“Murder.”
“Bloody rubbish!” Laurie interjected. “You can’t accuse that lad of murder. And you don’t take him in without me.”
“All right,” said Martineau agreeably. “You come along as well. We’ll wait till you’ve washed your hands.”
Laurie glared at him, then he strode into the garage. Devery followed him casually; hands in pockets, staring around.
“You got a search warrant for this place?” the taxi proprietor demanded curtly, as he cleansed his hands.
Devery grinned. “Not yet,” he said.
“Then get out!” Laurie snarled. “This is private property.”
“All right,” said Devery. He drifted a few paces toward the door, still keeping Laurie in view.
“‘Get out,’ I said!”
“Sure.” Devery moved one pace.
Glowering, Laurie dried his hands. Perhaps he also did some hard thinking. He strode past Devery and said to Martineau: “I’ve changed my mind. I’m not coming with you.”
“And I’ve changed mine,” said the inspector. “You’re the one I’m taking in.” For Devery had taken his hands from his pockets. He was holding them up, and tapping the fingers of one hand with the forefinger of the other.
“You’re taking me in!” Laurie exclaimed. Then he asked: “You’re letting the kid go?”
“No. I’m taking him too. He can keep you company.” Laurie looked as if he were going to fly at Martineau. But the inspector had a reputation. Men who flew at him usually regretted the action. The taxi man had to content himself with a bitter protest. “It’s a lousy deal,” he said. “You coppers don’t seem to realize that a man has his living to make. Who’s going to repay me and the kid for our lost time?”
“Write to your Member of Parliament about it,” said Martineau. “Come on, get into this car!”
“Just a minute. I’ll have to lock up the garage.”
“I’ll send some men to lock it up,” the inspector replied.
“Yes,” Devery added. “They’ll have a search warrant, too.”
11
At Headquarters Martineau left the two brothers in separate rooms, under guard. As they were parted, Laurie said: “Tell ’em nothing, kid,” and Gordon nodded, but he looked so nervously preoccupied that the message did not seem to register in his brain. His wild absent look told the experienced C.I.D. man that his thoughts were scurrying around in his head like rats in a cage. And rats are not conspicuously bothered by fellow feeling. They seek a way out for one, leaving others to follow if they can.
There was a message for Martineau. Inspector Vanbrugh had been trying to reach him on the phone. He remembered how helpful Vanbrugh had been, and he called him up at once.
The County man sounded impatient. “What’s going on?” he demanded. “I hear you’ve made an arrest.”
“We’ve picked up two brothers called Lovett,” said Martineau cautiously, “but there’s no charge yet.”
“Do they keep a pub? I thought it was somebody who kept a pub.”
“Oh, him!” said Martineau. He told Vanbrugh about the list of names he had obtained from Doug Savage. “The whole thing started with the theft of a bookmaker’s money,” he concluded. “The horse-racing angle has been there all the time, and gaming school types are usually interested in racing.”
The explanation was unnecessary. Vanbrugh had been fully aware of the sporting aspects of the case. Nevertheless, he listened without comment. He seemed to be very thoughtful when he rang off, and he did not ask for any of the names which Savage had given.
Martineau sent a search crew, with a warrant, to the house where Gordon Lovett lived with Mr. and Mrs. Laurie Lovett. He and Devery, with another warrant, returned to the taxi garage. They searched the place thoroughly, and the last thing they examined was a dusty, battered old spare taxi which looked as if it were waiting to be dragged away by a wrecker.