smiled pleasantly. ‘Wait a minute. It gets more interesting. You were picked up in Paddington Station next day. How the hell you managed to get clear of Birmingham I’ll never know, but the important thing was that the money was gone.’ He held the stem of his pipe against the side of his nose and said, ‘Now I wonder where it got to?’
Marlowe shrugged. ‘I said all I had to say at the trial. They proved I was driving the car. They gave me seven years, and now I’m out. So what?’
Masters nodded. ‘But there’s still the question of the money. You never did got around to telling us what you did with it.’
‘You know, you’ve got a point there.’ Marlowe dropped his voice a tone. ‘Promise you won’t let this go any further, but I gave all the money to a charity that’s very near to my heart. It’s a society that takes care of destitute policemen.’
‘Very funny,’ Masters said. ‘As it happens, I prefer my own version. Faulkner pulled that Birmingham job, though we’ve never been able to prove it because you kept your mouth shut.’
Marlowe shrugged. ‘So where does that get you?’
‘To this,’ Masters said. ‘Faulkner pulled the job, but he never got his hands on the cash.’ Marlowe started to speak but the policeman went on, ‘It’s no use denying it. I’ve got my contacts and I know he’s been keeping pretty close tabs on you while you’ve been inside. The way I see it this is what happened. When your car crashed that night, Faulkner, Butcher and Harris were with you. You were stunned. In a blind panic, they ran for it, leaving you. Maybe they forgot the money in the heat of the moment or perhaps they left it deliberately, hoping the police would think it was a one-man job. By a miracle you got away, because I picked you up myself in Paddington Station next day, but the money had disappeared.’
Marlowe stared out of the window, a frown on his face. ‘What if it’s all true? What if it happened exactly as you say? It still won’t get you anywhere.’ He laughed contemptuously. ‘If you caught me with the money in my pockets you couldn’t touch me. I’ve served my time.’
Masters sighed deeply. ‘You know, I thought you were smart, Marlowe. That’s what used to make you stand out amongst the crowd of mugs that hung around Faulkner’s club in the old days.’ He shook his head. ‘Do you think you’ll ever get to spend that money? Will you hell. I’m after it because to me it’s part of an unfinished case. Faulkner’s after it, and Butcher and Harris and every other cheap crook that knows the story. You’re branded clear to the bone.’
Marlowe swung round and gripped Masters by the right arm. His face had turned to stone and there was a terrible expression in his eyes. ‘Listen to me, Masters,’ he said, ‘and listen good. If anybody gets in my way I’ll stamp him into the ground, and that goes for you, too.’ His fingers dug painfully into the policeman’s arm and his voice trembled slightly. ‘I spent three years in a Chinese prison camp, Masters. Did you know that? I worked in a coal mine in Manchuria for twelve hours a day up to my knees in water. Most of my friends died, but I came home. And do you know what? Nobody seemed to know a war had been going on.’
‘Is that supposed to be an excuse?’ Masters said.
Marlowe ignored him. ‘I took a job as a driver with Faulkner. Good money and no questions asked. He tried to make a monkey out of me, but I ended up making him look pretty stupid.’ He released the policeman’s arm. ‘I’ve spent eight years of my life in prison, Masters, and I’m only thirty.’ He leaned back suddenly. ‘Okay, I’ve got the money. I earned it and now I’m keeping it.’
Masters shook his head slowly, and there was something like pity in his voice. ‘You’ll never get away with it. If Faulkner doesn’t catch up with you, I will.’
Marlowe shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t count on that if I were you.’
The car slowed as they approached a junction, and as the lights changed it started to pick up speed again. With a sudden movement, Marlowe jerked open the offside door, jumped out into the road, and slammed it behind him. He threaded his way quickly through heavy traffic and dodged down a side street.
Once away from people he started to run. He knew he had only a few minutes’ start at the most. As he approached the end of the street he slowed and turned into another main road. A bus was pulling away from a stop in front of him, and he broke into a run and jumped on to the platform as it gathered speed.
As the bus moved away into the main traffic stream he slumped down into a corner seat. His chest was heaving and there was a slight film of sweat on his brow. He wiped it away with the back of his hand and smiled wryly. Things had moved fast, faster than he had anticipated, but he was still ahead of the game and that was all that counted.
He dropped off the bus at the next stop and went into a hardware store where he purchased a cheap screwdriver. Then he crossed the road and plunged into a maze of back-streets. He walked quickly, head lowered against the driving rain, and finally emerged into another main road where he caught a bus for the City.
A little more than an hour after giving Masters the slip he was in the vicinity of Paddington Station. It was raining harder than ever now and the streets were almost deserted. He crossed the road towards the station and turned into a narrow street that was lined on each side with tall, decaying Victorian houses.
About half-way along the street he paused and looked up at one of the houses. Above the door a grimy glass sign carried the legend ‘Imperial Hotel’ in faded letters. It was typical of a certain type of establishment to be found in the area. Places where a room was usually required for only an hour or two and never longer than a night. He mounted the steps slowly and passed inside.
He found himself in a narrow hall with several doors opening off it. Directly in front of him stairs that were covered with a threadbare carpet lifted to a gloomy landing. On his left a middle-aged woman was sitting in a cubicle reading a newspaper. She looked up and blinked red-rimmed watery eyes, and then carefully folded the paper. She spoke in a light, colourless voice. ‘Yes, sir. What can I do for you?’
Marlowe’s eyes moved quickly over the rows of keys that hung on the board behind her head. ‘I’d like a room,’ he said. ‘Just for three or four hours.’
The woman’s wet eyes flickered briefly over him. She produced a battered register and pen, and said, ‘Sign here, please.’
Marlowe took the pen and hastily scrawled ‘P. Simons – Bristol’. The woman examined the entry and said politely, ‘Any luggage, sir?’
He shook his head. ‘I’ve left it at the station. I’m catching a train for Scotland this afternoon. Thought I could do with some sleep while I’m waiting.’
She nodded. ‘I see, sir. That will be fifteen shillings.’
He gave her a pound note and, when she turned to the board, said, ‘I’ll take number seven if it’s vacant.’ He laughed lightly. ‘My lucky number.’
The woman handed him the key. ‘It’s facing you at the top of the stairs, sir,’ she said. ‘Would you like me to give you a call?’
He shook his head. ‘No thanks. I’ll be all right.’
He mounted the stairs quickly and stood on the landing listening. The hotel was wrapped in quiet. After a moment he unlocked the door of room seven and went in.
Light filtered palely through
