“Yes, sir. I thought there might be some other evidence to be found in daylight. The ground is soft between the park gates and the bridge, and it’s just possible we may get some footprints which might help. We’ve got a fair idea of the prints Mallaig and Claydon made this evening. Bond had a look at their shoes as they came in. Mallaig had crepe rubber soles—size nine. Claydon wears size eight, and there’s a hole in the sole of his right shoe.”
“Good man!” said Macdonald. “You’re one of the fellows I like to work with.”
Wright grinned happily. “Thank you, Chief. A word like that from you makes the day seem a good one—but I’m afraid my efforts with the shoe soles won’t be worth much to you. The ground’s been trampled over a lot. Still, I’ve had a cordon put round, just in case.”
“Again—good for you. Co-operation in the early stages is often worth a lot more than brain-waves later,” said Macdonald. “I’ll have a look at deceased, and see what he had in his pockets, and then I’ll go and glance around in Regents Park.”
iv
Macdonald stood and studied the dead face of the man whom Mallaig had called “the Irishman”—and the Chief Inspector admitted that he himself would have attributed the same nationality to the owner of that smiling whimsical face. He studied the long thin hands and the condition of the dead man’s skin and hair. A healthy, well-kept skin and carefully tended hands denoted a man of the professional class rather than an artisan. A writer or an actor perhaps, thought Macdonald, for there was something that suggested an imaginative faculty, or artistry, in that pale smiling mask of death.
Macdonald next turned his attention to John Ward’s clothes. His suit had been a very good one once, though it was old now. The tailor’s name had been cut away, but the workmanship of the suit denoted a good tailor. The linen was less good in quality, but was clean and fresh. The only markings on it were those stitched in by a laundry. The contents of the pockets told very little: there was a wallet holding Identity Card and Ration Book, some printed cards giving John Ward’s name but no address, and three letters. Each of these was written by a different woman: each was a love letter of sorts, and each had had the address torn off. Elspeth, Meriel and Jane all expressed their affection for “Johnnie” in the current idiom of young women of to-day. Apart from the wallet and its contents the pockets contained four shillings and sixpence, a packet of Players, a box of matches, a fine linen handkerchief, a fountain pen, a pencil and two latch keys. The preliminary surgeon’s report told Macdonald that deceased appeared to have been in good health, but that he had been slightly lame, due to a badly set fracture in the left femur. “That probably kept him out of the Services, but it didn’t save his life,” pondered Macdonald. Something about John Ward interested the Chief Inspector. Even in death the Irishman had an invincible charm.
CHAPTER THREE
i
WHEN he left the Mortuary, Macdonald made his way to the Marylebone Road and turned up York Gate. The night was intensely dark and the streets were deserted; the buses were no longer running and not a single car was in sight as the Chief Inspector crossed the wide roadway opposite Marylebone Parish Church. London was silent, with a silence which had no quality of peacefulness: in its shroud of darkness the place seemed tense, uneasy, as though waiting for the first banshee howl of sirens which seemed a fitting accompaniment to the listening darkness. Had Macdonald not known his way very well he would never have found the entrance to the little bridge. He had not turned his torch on because he liked finding his way in the dark, steering by reason since the sky was so overcast that the keenest vision could not perceive the outline of roofs or trees against the clouds. Macdonald, using his memory, noted every kerb as he negotiated it, the roughness of asphalt and gravel, the smoothness of tarmac in the roadway of the Outer Circle, the slight rise in the ground as he crossed the road-bridge over the lake. When he did turn his torch on, he found himself exactly at the point he had calculated, and as he flashed the torchlight on the ground he was challenged by the constable on duty.
For the next fifteen minutes he examined the ground on, around and below the bridge. The latter told the plainest tale. Claydon’s footmarks showed clearly on the damp path, and it was evident that he had stood still for some considerable time, for the pressure of his shoes had made distinct imprints. He tended to dig his heels in, and the evidence was plain to see. Next Macdonald made his way to the seat where Mallaig had observed the earlier part of the evening’s proceedings, and here again his footmarks showed clearly, the imprint of the crepe rubber soles clearly discernible, as were their tracks when he had run to the bridge. On the bridge itself it was less easy to read the traces. There was a patch of mud at one point, at the place where John Ward had stood, and Macdonald guessed that he had walked across the muddy path recently trodden by pedestrians on the grass bordering the Outer Circle. Bending low, Macdonald brought the ray of his torch close to the surface of the bridge, while the constable stood by watching. At last Macdonald said: “There’s the print of bicycle tyres here—only as far as the point where deceased stood: perhaps that explains the most puzzling part of the story—how a third party approached the bridge without being heard by the man below it.”
Following up the prints, Macdonald found evidence that a bicycle had recently been ridden—or wheeled—along the sidewalk of York Gate and had turned in by the gate giving access to the bridge. The wheel tracks were fairly plain on the sidewalk, but only just discernible on the bridge where they were partly obliterated by footsteps. Macdonald stood and considered. It seemed possible to him that a man could have freewheeled a bicycle down the slight incline of the side-walk, swerved in at the gate and come level with the man on the bridge without being heard. If the evidence of Mallaig and Claydon was to be trusted, the blow which killed Ward had been struck while his head was bent over his cupped hands as he lighted a cigarette. The matchlight had made him a clear target for a few seconds. While he stood considering this possibility, Macdonald saw a light approaching in the road and realised that a bicyclist was close at hand.
“Hi there, cyclist! Police speaking. Stop just a minute.”
“Lord, what’s up now ?” demanded a resigned voice. Macdonald’s torchlight revealed the figure of a man in Civil Defence uniform, and the C.I.D. man replied:
“Nothing for you to worry about. Can you spare your bike for a couple of minutes while I try an experiment?”
“O.K. What’s the idea?”
“Would you like to co-operate?” asked Macdonald, and the other replied:
“You bet—provided it won’t take too long. I’ve got ten minutes.”
“That’ll do. Let me have your bike. I want you to climb over the bridge and wait underneath it—and tell me what you hear afterwards.”
“Right oh. That sounds easy.”
“Good. Get over the railing here—we’re trying to get some evidence from footprints further along . . . That’s right. Just wait there—and when you hear me whistle, listen for all you’re worth.”
Macdonald then gave a few words of instruction to the attendant constable, who was bidden to stand at the same spot that John Ward had stood and to strike a match and light a cigarette after he had counted twenty. Macdonald himself then wheeled the bike a dozen yards up the side-walk of York Gate and whistled shrilly. He stood with the bike on his left, and then with his left foot on the pedal shoved off and free-wheeled to the gate. Just as he came level with the gate the match spluttered and the constable’s face and hands showed up clearly in the flickering light. Macdonald swerved on to the bridge close behind the constable, brought himself to a standstill with one foot on the ground and made a swipe with his right hand at the constable’s helmet. Still with his left foot on the pedal the Chief Inspector shoved off again and the bike moved forward into the darkness of the park. The constable, following previous instructions, had collapsed noisily on to the bridge. Macdonald returned to the bridge and called to the Civil Defence man below:
&
nbsp; “Experiment’s over. Can I give you a hand up?”
“That’s all right.” The chance collaborator was an active fellow and he hauled himself up with ease. Macdonald asked:
“Exactly what did you hear after I whistled?”
The other replied: “I heard the sound of a match being struck and saw the gleam of light—surprisingly bright in the dark. I think my attention was completely taken up by the light, because I didn’t really notice any sound before there was a good healthy biff and then a commotion and thud which made me think the bridge was breaking down. Thinking back, I can remember hearing a sort of faint click-click. It was the bike of course, free-wheeling—but then I knew you’d borrowed my bike. If I hadn’t known, I shouldn’t have tumbled to it that a bike went over the bridge.”
“Thanks very much. You’ve done your bit admirably and I’m much obliged,” said Macdonald.
“Glad to be of use. What’s the racket?”
“I expect you’ll see something about it in the paper tomorrow. Someone got biffed over the head, and it’s a bit difficult to understand how the assailant came up unheard.”
“I follow. Hence the bike idea. All the same, it wouldn’t be easy to biff anyone efficiently from a bike—not unless you’re a bit of a trick rider.”
“I think I agree with you—though I landed quite a fair one on that chap’s helmet,” replied Macdonald.
The Civil Defence man chuckled and then said, “You know it’s not in human nature to have no curiosity at all. It makes me hopping mad to have heard just this bit of the story and then have to clear off and not know another word about it.”
“Yes, I quite see that,” replied Macdonald. “Incidentally, what’s your job?”
“I’m one of the Post-wardens in that block up by the corner there: there’s quite a party of us near the searchlight.”
“Have you just come off duty ?”
“More or less. My mate’s there, and I’ve taken the opportunity of coming to get some cigarettes: it’s O.K. provided one warden’s at the post.”
“I see. You might be useful to me if I want to learn more about the nocturnal habits of Regents Park. Can I see your Identity Card?”
Again the other laughed. “Here it is. Don’t go thinking I biffed anyone over the head—because I haven’t.”
Macdonald examined the Warden’s card in the gleam of his torchlight, saying, “One of the disadvantages of being a policeman is that every innocent citizen imagines one’s suspecting him. Well, Mr. Tracey, I’ll probably look you up at your Post. If you could manage to keep this experiment under your hat for the time being it might be advisable. It’s not essential—but less said’s soonest mended.”
“O.K. ‘Careless speech’ and all that. I’ll remember. I’d better be beating it. What’s your own name, if I’m allowed to ask?”
“Macdonald. I’m a C.I.D. man.”
“Lawks! I’ve heard of you . . . in that Rescue Squad do down Lambeth way. May 10th’41. Shan’t forget that in a hurry, by gum.”
“Neither shall I,” replied Macdonald feelingly. “You Civil Defence blokes earned George Crosses, every man jack of you, that night.”
“What about yourself?—Well, so long. Come and see us at the Post sometime. Cheer oh!”
When Mr. Tracey had mounted his cycle, the constable came to Macdonald. “D’you reckon that’s how it was done, sir? You caught me a good wallop as you passed.”
“I don’t know: it’s just an idea,” said Macdonald. “Incidentally, did you hear the bike as it approached you?”
“Yes, sir, but I was expecting to hear it, and also it was a very old bike. Real bone shaker.”
“That’s true,” replied Macdonald. “I’ll try the same experiment again with a good machine and see that it’s well oiled. There’s one point which puzzled me a bit though: those bicycle tracks only show as far as the middle of the bridge: there wasn’t a sign of them on the side of the bridge away from the gate, and the bridge isn’t wide enough to turn round on—so I shouldn’t like to offer the idea to Counsel for the Defence to make merry over—even if we had any other evidence of the bicyclist’s existence, which we haven’t.”
“All the same, it’s a good idea of yours, sir,” said the constable. “It does explain that puzzling bit about the chap below the bridge not hearing a footstep—and you hit me harder than I’d have thought possible in the circumstances.”
“Devil take it!” said Macdonald unexpectedly. “It’s beginning to rain, Drew. Even if it had kept fine those prints would have faded out by morning, but two minutes of rain will ruin the lot—and you can’t put a tarpaulin over half Regents Park. Oh well, I suppose it’s better not to have too much luck to begin with.”
“It’s a good thing you saw those prints when you did, sir. Gave you an idea, so to speak.”
“Quite true—though ideas are dangerous commodities,” replied Macdonald. “Child’s guide to detection—evidence without ideas is more valuable than ideas without evidence.”
The constable chuckled: “I’ve heard that evidence interpreted by ideas is the ticket, sir.”
“Losh, don’t be too intellectual, Drew—on a foul November night in the blackout in Regents Park. What was that low ditty—‘Can your mother ride a bike . . . in the park after dark . . .’ I’m afraid you’re going to have a poor night of it, Drew. Keep listening for cyclists—and remember the old adage.”
ii
Macdonald glanced at the luminous dial of his watch when he had turned his coat collar up. Eleven o’clock—only two and a half hours since John Ward had walked on to the bridge. Remembering the sergeant’s statement that the tenants of the flats at 5A Belfort Grove were mostly ‘in the profession’—on the stage in other words—Macdonald guessed that late to bed and late to rise was more likely to be their motto than the one generally approved by moralists. He decided to go to Belfort Grove and see if any of the household could be helpful. He walked back down York Gate, crossed the now unrailed space of the church-yard opposite and recovered his car where he had parked it in Marylebone High Street and was soon driving westwards along the empty darkness of Marylebone Road—a darkness slashed by the incredible brightness of the traffic lights shining out at the road junctions ahead. Belfort Grove had the same quality as every other London street in the blackout: it seemed completely blank and dead, as though it were impossible that cheerful normal human beings could live and move behind the dead facade of blackened houses. Macdonald parked his car at the entrance to the “Grove,” and turned his torchlight discreetly on to the nearest doorway to ascertain its numbering. After several such attempts he concluded that the numbering of the houses must be continuous—up one side and down the other. As he descended the steps o: No. 27—having previously examined numbers 2 and 16, he heard footsteps approaching him and a cheerful voice enquired:
“Are you looking for any particular number—or are you just looking?”
“I’m looking for number 5A,” he replied.
“Well, well, I thought you might be. You see I live there. Just popped out to the post so’s to catch it in the morning. Number five’s back that way. If you’ll wait till I’ve posted my letter I’ll show you. You just wait here.”
The voice was a woman’s voice, good-tempered and full of confidence. Macdonald heard the click of her heels as she walked briskly along the pavement. He waited as she had bidden him, amusing himself by visualising the owner of the cheerful Cockney voice. A woman as old or older than himself, he judged (Macdonald was looking fifty in the face) a Londoner undoubtedly, one of the undaunted millions who take blackout and bombs in their stride, and prefer the hazards of those “twin b’s” to the “‘orrible’ush” of the safe countryside. He heard her footsteps returning and heard her humming a tune which took him back twenty years.
“Let the great round world keep turning . . .” Macdonald whistled the tune under his breath and was greeted with “Fancy you knowing that! I always says the last war had the tunes. No
t a tune worth singing this war. I suppose you’ve come about poor Johnnie Ward.”
“That’s it,” replied Macdonald, falling in step beside her.
“I guessed that’d be it,” she went on. “Funny, isn’t it? I can’t see you but I bet I know just what you look like. You police are a good class these days—not like some of’em when I was a gal. The minute I heard your voice I said to meself, ‘Not one of us and not a newspaper man either. Must be police,’ I said. I fell down in Piccadilly the other night—after the sirens had gone too, and a young Bobby helped me up—you should just’ve heard his voice. Eton. Not half! ‘Madam’ he called me. This is number 5. Now what’ve I done with me latch key. Hope I didn’t pop it in the pillar post . . . no, here we are . . . come right in.”
The entrance hall in number 5 was partially illuminated by a melancholy blue bulb which shed sickly beams on worn linoleum and colourless walls.
“Who d’you want to see?” inquired Macdonald’s guide, and he replied:
“Well, say if I start with you. You’ve been very helpful so far.”
“Righty oh. Always glad to do me best. There’s a lot of stairs though. Heaven’s not in it. You follow me. Remember the old song? ‘So up the stairs he went again, the shopman said ‘How do?’ . . . It’s been a lovely day to-day, what can I do for you?’ . . . Law! my poor feet. . . .”
Macdonald followed the lady up three flights of stairs and then she halted on a dimly-lit landing, produced another latch key and opened a door from which a flood of light poured out on the landing.
“Pop in!” she adjured him. “Landing blackout’s N.B.G. I do like a bit of light. This dark business is enough to give a girl the creeps. Come right in. That’s better, isn’t it?”
Murder by Matchlight Page 3