“That’s torn it,” he said. The time was five minutes to eight.
He rubbed sleep from his eyes with a handkerchief. He straightened his tie, and smoothed his hair with his hand. “The drink,” he said ruefully. He sneezed again. He had no headache, but his mouth was as dry as the inside of an ashcan.
The drink had got him into trouble again. Himself, the responsible, successful police officer, had behaved like a willful, will-less sot. Julia would be furious, and, to be honest, she would be justified in her anger. He had behaved like a fool. This was truly Don Starling’s day.
“I feel shocking,” He said, and wet his lips. He could think of one cure for his condition. A hair of the dog. A hair of the tail of the dog that bit you. A double whiskey, then a glass of beer to slake that dry tongue. It was no use going home: not until closing time. He would stay on the booze and forget Julia; and, maybe, forget what day it was.
There was a mirror on the desk, used by his predecessor to see who entered the room without turning in his chair. He examined his reflection. “Chief Inspector Martineau, Your Worship…” he said. “Gad, what a bright sample you are!”
He got his hat and coat, picked up the Gazette file, and turned off the lights. There was only one plainclothesman in the main C.I.D. office, and he stared open-mouthed when Martineau emerged from a room which had apparently been unoccupied. Martineau grunted, “Here you are,” and gave him the file, and walked out of the office.
For two hours he wandered from bar to bar, pouring liquor into his depression. The liquor only dulled the edge of his uneasiness. He argued with himself, and occasionally his lips moved, and people who noticed looked at him curiously.
At ten o’clock he knew that he was not, and would not be, visibly drunk. He was in the soberly reckless state which is beyond ordinary intoxication. He could still converse fluently and, in everyday matters, sensibly. He was unhappy, and he did not care what happened, and yet a part of his mind kept him aware that closing time would be a good thing for him.
It was about ten o’clock, in a tavern called the Maid of Athens, that two men approached him glass in hand. The leader of the two spoke politely but breezily—a strong breeze from far Kentish hopfields—but his companion was a picture of quiet alcoholic misery.
“Excuse me speakin’ to yer, Inspector,” said the confident one. “My friend here could do with a bit of advice. He’s havin’ trouble at home.”
Martineau sighed, and glanced around the bar at the examples of married manhood. “Aren’t we all?” he said.
The man laughed immoderately, though his friend only stared glumly. Martineau waited stolidly for details of the complaint. The breezy one stopped laughing too quickly, and said: “Ar, but this is serious. My mate here, he can’t trust his wife. She’s proper fly. He don’t know where she is half the time. He seen her once, gettin’ inter a taxi with another feller, an’ she denied it was her. Pointblank denied it! That’s right, i’n’t it, Lionel?”
Lionel nodded glumly. “Tha’s right, Willie,” he said.
“What can yer do with a woman like that, Inspector?” Willie wanted to know.
Martineau cast around in his mind for a suitable noncommittal reply. He remembered that Julia would be very, very angry. To hell with her, he thought.
“I’ve told him what ter do,” said Willie. “Put her in the family way, before somebody else does. If yer want ter stop a pigeon from strayin’, put a cock with it.”
Martineau grinned. “I’ve heard worse advice than that,” he said.
“Yers, lots worse,” said Willie in wholehearted agreement. “I don’t have no trouble, I can tell yer. I’ve got three sons at home. They’re three little imps o’ Satan, but I wouldn’t sell ’em for three million quid.” He paused and thought about that, then he improved on it. “I wouldn’t sell ’em for three million, but I wouldn’t give yer thruppence for three more of the same sort.”
Lionel shook his head doubtfully, and Willie looked at him in exasperation. “Well, Mr. Martineau’s told yer, hasn’t he?” he demanded. He thanked the policeman for the advice he had not given, and led his mournful friend away.
Martineau watched them go. “When in doubt, put somebody in the family way,” he murmured, and ordered another drink.
4
It was a fine cold night, and as the crowds moved along under the lights of Lacy Street their breath showed like horses’ breath in the frosty air. When he had quitted the Maid of Athens, Martineau sauntered among them, with no destination in mind. His gait was quite steady, and he was able to respond with every appearance of sober urbanity to the respectful greetings of the policemen he met.
He wandered on. He did not know what he wanted, but he knew what he did not want. He did not want to go home.
A girl spoke to him. She was standing in shadow at a corner. “Where you off to, love?” she asked.
He stopped, astonished. Most of the street women knew him by sight, and those who did not were quick to guess at his occupation. They usually managed to keep out of his way. This one, perhaps, was a newcomer.
She looked up into his face. “My word,” she said shrewdly. “You’ve had a drop tonight.”
“True,” he agreed. “Too true.”
“I can give you a good time,” she said. “Come with me.”
“Where to?”
“A place I know. It’s not far. We don’t need a taxi. We can walk it in three minutes.”
“I haven’t any money,” he said.
“That’s what they all say. What about three pounds? It’ll be worth it.”
He considered the girl. She was dark and pretty, and quite young. She was smartly dressed and she looked respectable. How hard or how far was the step from respectability to the oldest profession in the world? Neither hard nor far, he suspected. Most of the girls were in that game because they liked it, or at least because they had liked it in the beginning. How would this girl be? Curiosity was the only feeling he had about her.
“All right,” he said, somewhat to his own surprise.
She took his arm. Immediate affection. “This way, love,” she said. They walked along the side street.
“What’s your name, love?” she asked. “Or what shall I call you?”
“Lionel,” he said. And to himself he said: “This is a proper mug’s game.”
“Lionel. That’s quite nice,” she said. “My name is Anne Marie.”
“Did your parents call you that?”
“Well no,” she admitted. “It’s a sort of professional name. You can’t get anywhere with Annie.”
She laughed and looked up into his face. They were passing the lighted window of a snack bar. She looked again, and her mouth formed a startled O. “Ow! You’re Martineau!” she said in a fright, and she released his arm and ran away.
He gazed after her stolidly. He was not amused, but neither was he disappointed. “The social handicaps of being a prominent copper,” he mused as he returned to Lacy Street. “The leper of the law.”
There was still time for one drink. Thirty yards away was the Lacy Arms. He had kept away from that place since he came out of hospital. “I have an appointment,” he remembered. “Must keep my appointment. I’m only about four months late.”
Though she was busy, Lucky Lusk saw him as soon as he entered the bar. She came straight toward him, and stood opposite him. Around him, customers were clamoring for rounds of drinks before closing time. He grinned at her. “One large whiskey,” he said.
“Why didn’t you come before this?” she asked.
“I’ve been a wounded hero, didn’t you know?” he said. “I’m better now. I start work tomorrow.”
She could not carry on the conversation. There were too many calls upon her attention. She gave him the whiskey. “I’ll talk to you in a minute,” she said.
When the manager had firmly shouted: “Time, ladies and gentlemen, please,” she returned to Martineau. “Will you wait for me?” she asked. “I have to tidy up here.
”
He nodded, and pushed his empty glass toward her. “Never mind,” she said. “You can have a drink at my place.”
As she collected glasses she stole glances at him. To her, he looked as if he were in a reckless mood. “This is it,” she thought, but she was afraid of keeping him waiting too long. She held a brief conference with another barmaid. The other girl looked curiously at Martineau, and nodded. She would wash the glasses for Lucky.
“I’m ready now, love,” said Lucky to Martineau. “I’ll just get my coat.”
Soon they were walking toward Lucky’s home. His hands were in the pockets of his overcoat—a posture not usual with him—and she hugged his arm and kept very close to him, matching his strolling step. Martineau thought that this was a very cozy way of getting along. They walked in harmony. When he walked with Julia they were always going somewhere, full of purpose: he strode and she stepped briskly beside him, with her hand scarcely resting in the crook of his arm.
This was better, just sauntering along. Martineau began to feel very affectionate toward Lucky. He could drift along nicely with her.
Lucky, on the other hand, was planning for what she expected to happen. “He won’t carry anything around with him,” she told herself. “A man like him wouldn’t.” Still, she had to get to know something.
“You’ll be careful, won’t you?” she said.
“Careful?”
“Yes. Er, you know… I can’t afford to have a baby.”
“Careful! That’s no good,” he said bluntly. “It’s too late to be careful.”
“Never mind,” she said quickly. “I’ll call at the all-night chemist’s, and get something.”
“Is that necessary?” he demanded.
“Of course it is, silly. You know what could happen.”
“Well, let it happen,” he said rashly. “I could do with some family. If it does happen, I’ll get a divorce and marry you.”
“Would you really?”
“Of course I would,” he affirmed.
She was silent for a while. Some part of her thoughts made her squeeze his arm. Then she said: “No. The marrying part is all right, but I don’t want any kids. I’m not the sort of woman to have kids.”
“Don’t you ever want any children?” he asked. “Not even when you’re married?”
“No. They’re not my cup of tea at all.” She squeezed his arm again. “I just want you.”
They came to the corner where the chemist’s shop was open. “Wait here,” she said. “I won’t be a minute.”
He stood at the curb and lit a cigarette. He blew out smoke pensively. So Lucky was another one who would not have children on any consideration. You do find ’em, Martineau, he reflected.
It was a busy corner where he stood. Crossing lights winked, and traffic stopped and started. People were hurrying home after their evening’s entertainment. The anonymous thousands, going back to the places where they scratched and toiled in innumerable ways to make a living. They did not really belong to Granchester. This was Granchester, this less-than-a-square-mile in the center of things. There was no hotel district, no theater district, no financial district, no administrative district. There was just the middle of Granchester, which, for Martineau, had everything. He belonged here, and so did Lucky Lusk. Julia did not. She was suburbanite to the core.
He thought of Julia’s Granchester; and of other districts, within the city boundary, which were not the real Granchester. Not half a mile from where he stood there was a section which housed many colored people. It had no name, but some people called it Dixieland. There were Jewish and Irish sections. There were sections, recently respectable, which had been made into slums by new inhabitants. There were the residential areas. But they were not recognizably Granchester, because they could have belonged to any city. Here, around here, where the buildings—and very often the people in them—had definite and perceivable characters, was the real Granchester.
Don Starling had belonged here. Martineau still did. Lucky did. Sinners. Sinners, rats, and people who unwillingly fed the rats.
“I wouldn’t like to be anywhere else,” Martineau decided.
A taxi passed near, with a young colored man at the wheel. Colored taxi drivers and colored bus conductors. That was something Martineau had never seen in London, the Big Smoke. Well well. What Granchester does today, London does tomorrow.
Another taxi approached. The driver checked, and swerved hopefully to the curb. Martineau put up his hand.
He got into the taxi and gave his address. Then he said: “She doesn’t want any kids. She never had a man who was any good.”
The taxi driver took no notice. People said all sorts of daft things to him.
Martineau did not speak again until he had alighted at his front gate. He paid the driver and gave him his tip. “Good night,” he said solemnly. “When in doubt, put somebody in the family way.”
5
“This is it,” said Martineau as he walked round to the back door. “Home, the place to go when every other place is closed.”
The door was unlocked. One thing about Julia, she wasn’t afraid of things. She had courage and good nerves. “Well, I must have married her for something besides her looks,” he murmured.
She was waiting for him. She looked at him searchingly. “You’ve excelled yourself today,” she said with surprising calmness.
“Yes indeed,” he agreed. “Sorry I’m late. I fell asleep in my new office.” He threw his hat in the general direction of a chair, and never looked to see where it fell. Then he slipped off his overcoat and absently reached out with it, to where there used to be a hook behind the living-room door. Julia had removed the hook about the time he was made Chief Inspector. He never noticed when the overcoat dropped to the floor.
He rubbed his hands together. “Any supper?” he asked, suddenly realizing that he was hungry.
“In the oven since teatime,” she said. “As usual.” Then, quite coolly: “I don’t know how long you think I’ll stand this state of affairs.”
“Me neither,” he said, walking toward the kitchen. “I don’t know how I stand it myself.”
“Stupid brute,” she said, suddenly and clearly. “I’m going to bed.”
“Good night,” he answered, turning the oven switches.
Julia went to bed. Martineau lit a cigarette, and decided that his life was in a mess. It occurred to him that some soft piano music couldn’t make Julia more angry, and he went into the front room. He turned on the light and then stood in complete amazement. The piano was missing. In its place, grandly alone on the fitted carpet, was a console television set.
“What the devil—?” he began. Then he noticed a sheet of paper lying on the top of the otherwise shiny and immaculate console. He went forward and picked up the paper. It had a printed billhead, thus:
Hindle Clegg and Son
79 Castle Street 79
Radio TV Piano
Music Music Music
and underneath:
His own name and address followed. Naturally. “Send the bill to my husband. Chief Inspector Martineau, you know.” It was cool, very cool. Julia had nerve, all right. To flog a man’s piano and expect him to pay the balance on a blasted television set! To imagine that this thing was worth more than his piano!
He crumpled the bill in his hand, and threw it into the fireplace. He went to the foot of the stairs and bawled: “I’m going to change your mind for you. You’ll bring my piano back tomorrow, and I’ll let you know when we can afford television.”
She did not answer, so he continued to shout: “You never wanted television. It’s just a dirty trick. But it won’t work, see? You get my piano back tomorrow. Not me, you!”
She appeared at the head of the stairs in a handsome dark-blue dressing gown. There was no doubt of it, she was regally beautiful.
“Is it necessary to inform the neighbors of our affairs?” she demanded in a low, clear voice. “They’ll all know you’re drunk.”
>
“I’m not drunk!” he thundered, aware that he was certainly not sober. “And the neighbors can go and take a flying jump at themselves for all I care.”
“You are drunk, and you’ll care enough if somebody sends an anonymous letter to the Chief and tells him so.”
“He won’t believe it. I am not drunk. I’m just a frustrated husband. I’m a frustrated man.”
“You’re a drunken man,” she said with utter contempt.
“And you’re cold sober, always sober,” he retorted in a quieter voice as he glared up at her. “But what good are you? You’re neither a wife nor a mother.”
“Hello, we’re off again,” she said. “I’d look nice, having children to you. Then I could sit here all the time and wait for you to come home.”
“You wouldn’t have to. If we had some kids I’d be home a lot of the time. I’d come home to lunch as well.”
“That’s what you say. I know different.”
“It’d stop your gallivanting off to your bridge clubs and tea fights, an’ all. If you want to keep a pigeon at home, put a cock with it.”
“What’s that you said?”
“You heard.”
Julia shuddered. “How vulgar can a man get?” she asked the ceiling.
“A man can demand his rights as a husband,” Martineau rejoined. “Every man has a right to have children if his wife is able to bear ’em.”
“Well, you won’t get me bearing yours.”
“Oh, won’t I? You’re going to start bearing mine right after I’ve had my supper. There’s no time to waste. We’re not getting any younger, you know.”
“Ridiculous! You’re not only drunk, you’re insane.”
“You mean I’m just coming to my senses. Come to think of it, our marriage has never really been consummated. There’s never been a real meeting of the flesh.”
“There won’t be one tonight, either.”
“Oh yes there will. Tonight, I am going to consummate my marriage, and in the fullness of time you will have a baby. You’ll be a changed woman.”
Murder Somewhere in This City Page 20