Johnny Fabian, standing in a queue at Pigeon Hill waiting for a bus which he had been informed would take him within a hundred yards of Rooke’s Garage at the four crossways just beyond the Blue Lion, received a slight set-back at seeing what he took to be Sid Turner emerging from a small eating-house on the other side of the road. Having no desire to renew what could scarcely be described as an acquaintance, he looked away. It occurred to him that, however desirable Rooke’s Garage and the flat over it might be he wouldn’t really want Mirrie to be in the way of knocking up against Sid if she happened to shop in Pigeon Hill. The effect of this wore off presently when he had met Jimmy Rooke and discovered a liking both for him and for the terms on which he was willing to dispose of the garage. It wore off, but it had been there and it was to recur.
What he didn’t know was that Sid Turner had seen and recognized him. At the time Sid was not interested. He recognized Johnny, felt an angry pricking grudge against him, and thought no more about the matter until later, when it suddenly became important. He was not at this time seriously worried about the police and their enquiries. They would nose about for a bit, and when they didn’t get anywhere they would come off it. They might suspect him, but there wasn’t anything they could prove. Absolutely nothing. He had a dangerous smouldering anger against Mirrie Field for blabbing about those two telephone calls. Women! Couldn’t keep their mouths shut, not even when they’d be getting themselves into trouble by talking. All the same they were. He wasn’t all that easy about Bertha Cummins. A pound to a tanner she’d be slopping over to old Maudsley and spilling the beans.
The thought jabbed him, but only for the moment, because if it came to that the beans were spilled already and no great harm done. All she could tell Maudsley that he didn’t know was that it was she and not Jenny Gregg who had given away the terms of Jonathan Field’s will. And all she would get out of that would be the sack, and if she got another job she’d be lucky. But anyhow, and suppose she was bent on her own ruin, he didn’t see how she could do him any particular harm. The police already knew that Mirrie had told him about the will. And so what? He was her aunt’s brother and an old friend-why shouldn’t she tell him, and why shouldn’t he know? The fact that Bertha had told him the same thing was neither here nor there. It was Mirrie who had made a damned fool of herself by blabbing about those two telephone calls. He thought she should have known better than to split on him. He remembered holding her close up to him in a dark alleyway and setting the point of his knife against her throat. He thought she would have remembered it too. Perhaps the time had come to give her another lesson.
Chapter XXXVIII
IT WAS JUST after opening time on Tuesday evening that Aggie Marsh came out of her comfortable sitting-room at the Three Pigeons, crossed a narrow passage, and opened a door which led to the space behind the bar. She had a pleased, flushed look, and she would rather have stayed in her comfortable parlour and let Sid Turner make love to her, but business before pleasure was her motto, and it wasn’t any good letting Sid get too free. She was a respectable woman, and it wouldn’t do him any harm to remember it. So she tidied her hair at the gilt-edged mirror above the mantelpiece and put her dress to rights before going through to give Molly Docherty a hand. But she had hardly got the door half open, when she heard Sid’s name. Something made her step back. She stood there and listened. Molly was laughing-a big red-haired girl and a very good barmaid.
“Sure he’ll be here, and why not-they’re courting. But whether he’s here this identical minute I couldn’t be telling you, for I’ve not set eyes on him myself.”
Aggie closed the door softly and stepped back across the passage. Sid Turner was on his feet straightening his tie.
“What’s up?”
She shut that door too.
“Two men asking for you in the bar. One of them was here last night. A plain-clothes tec, you know, but the other one’s new.”
“What do they want?”
“I didn’t wait to hear. Molly said she hadn’t seen you, and I didn’t know whether you’d want-”
“Well, I don’t! Why can’t they leave a chap alone? I don’t know anything, and I’m not going to have them say I do! Talk to them for a bit and jolly them along. I’ll slip out the back way.”
She began to say something, but he pushed past her and was gone. Didn’t so much as give her a kiss or say he’d be seeing her. She stood for a minute and remembered that poor Bert hadn’t ever really liked Sid Turner. Too slick by half and a bit too much on the make, that was what Bert used to say. And he used to tell her she’d got too soft a heart, and to be careful of herself or she’d be getting into trouble when he was gone. Bert had been good at sizing people up and she had been very fond of him. She went into the bar and gave the two Inspectors a sober “Good-evening.”
“Detective Inspector Abbott and Detective Inspector Blake, Mrs. Marsh. I’m afraid we are here on business. We are anxious to see Sidney Turner.”
She was a comely, pleasant-looking woman-nice fair hair, nice colour, nice curves. The colour demonstrated its natural origin by a sudden fade-out as she said,
“What do you want him for?”
“We think he may be able to help us in connection with the death of Mr. Jonathan Field.”
There were only two other people in the bar, young fellows having a joke with Molly Docherty. Aggie Marsh said quickly,
“What’s it got to do with Sid? Anyhow he isn’t here.”
Frank Abbott said,
“Mrs. Marsh, I am sure you won’t want to put any obstacle in the way of the police. You are the licensee, are you not? I must tell you that we have a warrant for Turner’s arrest.”
The door into the passage stood ajar. She wondered whether Sid had heard. She wondered whether Sid was gone. She said, “What for?”
And the tall fair policeman said, “For the murder of Jonathan Field.”
She felt as if he had hit her. The Three Pigeons had always been a respectable house. Bert had always kept it respectable. Murder had a dreadful sound. She ought to have listened to Bert and remembered what he said. She oughtn’t to have let Sid make love to her. Bert had warned her, and she had gone against him. She oughtn’t to have done it. She said in a slow, dull voice,
“I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
There was a yard behind the Three Pigeons, and a door in the wall which gave upon a narrow alleyway. Following this as far as it would take him, Sid Turner came out upon a street of semi-detached houses, very neat and comfortable, with lace curtains in the front rooms and a fair sprinkling of aspidistras.
When he had put a good distance between himself and the Three Pigeons he considered what he should do next. He had lingered to hear what the busies wanted with him, but at the word “warrant” he did not wait to hear any more. From being fatuously secure he tumbled into a panic-what to do, where to go, how to escape. He didn’t dare go back to his lodging for fear of its being watched. Tom Jenkins had looked at him once or twice in a queer sort of way. No, he had better not go back to the Jenkinses. And that meant he couldn’t pick up his motorbike, or his money, or anything that could be turned into money. He had a few pounds, but they wouldn’t go far. And he must get out of London, and get out quick. He went into the next pub he came to, bought himself a drink, and got down to making a plan of escape.
There are plans which are built up a bit at a time, shaping themselves as you go along. And there are plans which come into mind, as it were, ready made. Into Sid Turner’s mind there came such a plan. What was the last place on earth where anyone would look for him? Field End. And with this as a start the whole plan was there, waiting to be carried out. Field End, the money he was going to need, the satisfaction of teaching Mirrie a lesson, the clever twist which would bring her under his hand-everything was there to the last detail. He finished his drink and went out to find himself a car.