Murder by Matchlight

by Lorac, E. C. R.

  “Much better,” replied Macdonald cheerfully, blinking a little in the strong light. His first impression was of a prevailing pinkness: pink walls, pink curtains, pink cushions: artificial pink roses stood in ornate vases, artificial cherry blossoms trailed over mirrors and peeped coyly round elaborately framed photographs. Macdonald disliked pink as a colour, and this room seemed to him to resemble pink blanc-mange. He turned in some relief to study the owner of all this roseate effect—a neat little black-coated figure, she stood and returned his stare sedately.

  “I’m Rosie Willing,” she said cheerfully. “Not that I’m expecting you to know me name. I’ve been in variety since the year dot, but mostly in the provinces. Now all the youngsters are in the services I’ve got a contract with Stolling Ltd. I know me stuff, you see, and if I’m not the world’s chicken I can still get a laugh when there’s a laugh to be got. Sit down, won’t you?”

  “Thanks very much.” Macdonald lowered himself into an ancient chair, whose springs were almost defunct under its blanc-mange coloured cover. Rosie Willing was very much as he had visualised her—over sixty years old he guessed, but gallantly and obstinately youthful of aspect. Her fair hair should have been grey, and her cheeks pippin coloured rather than ashes of roses, but her blue eyes were as serene as a child’s. Her figure was still trim and slim, and it was probable that she looked a well-preserved forty behind the footlights. Somehow Macdonald liked her, despite her partiality for very pink pink.

  “Poor Johnny Ward!” she said. “So he’s got his number, has he ? It was only yesterday he said to me ‘Reckon I’m on to a good thing this time, Rosie. You and me, we’ll have supper at Oddy’s next week, you see if we don’t.’ Always the optimist, Johnny was.”

  “You knew him well, then?” asked Macdonald, and she shrugged her shoulders.

  “In a way, yes, in a way, no. These days you get to know your neighbours, don’t you ? What with the raids and shelters and all that, and no one able to get any help. I nursed Johnnie when he had flu’ last month—you know the way one does, these days. He was a nice fellow and full of jokes—but as to knowing him—who he was or where he came from, well, I just don’t.”

  “Say if you tell me just what you do know,” said MacDonald, and she nodded in. her bird-like way.

  “Righty-oh—but it’s not a lot, so don’t be too hopeful.”

  iii

  John Ward had first been seen in Belfort Grove about nine months ago, in February: he was introduced to Rosie Willing by Claude d’Alvarley, the actor who was tenant of the room which Ward had been living in. “Claude used to be on the Halls, he did a very good dance turn—tango and all that,” said Miss Willing. “Then he did some work for the flicks and got a contract at Denham. It wasn’t much use to him, because he got called up soon after. He told me he’d let Johnny Ward have his room, and that was that. Johnny just moved in—in May it’d’ve been, and here he’s been ever since. He was a nice fellow, you couldn’t help liking him; he’d got that Irish way with him, so you could have forgiven him anything. We soon got matey, and he popped in and out most days. I shall miss him.”

  “What did he do?—was he on the stage?”

  “Bless you, no. Fellows like Johnnie never do any work. He couldn’t have held a job down for five minutes. The only thing about him you could rely on was that he was unreliable.”

  “Then he had enough money to live on?”

  She laughed at that. “Money? Not he. He made a bit here and there, and when he’d got a note in his pocket he blewed it at once.” She studied Macdonald quizzically. “Now look here. Don’t you think you’re going to put me in a witness-box to give evidence. Nothing doing in that line. If I’m asked to swear what I know about Johnnie Ward, I don’t know anything. See?”

  “Yes, I see,” replied Macdonald—“but you’ve done a bit of guessing, haven’t you?”

  “I won’t say I haven’t, but that’s not evidence,” she replied. “I don’t mind talking to you, but you’ve got to remember it’s only ‘say so.’ I don’t know anything.”

  “Right you are,” replied Macdonald. “Now according to ‘say so’ how did Johnnie Ward scrounge a living?”

  “Scrounge?” she echoed meditatively. “That’s about the right word. He picked up what he could where he could. You know what it is these days: coupons and ration cards and short of this and can’t get that. Johnnie got a bit of this and a bit of that and he sold it again to the highest bidder. Mind you, I’m only guessing—but I guess it was silk stockings here and a bottle of gin there, and clothing coupons somehow.”

  “Black market, then?” inquired Macdonald.

  “I didn’t say so—and I don’t know,” she replied, “but when governments go making all these rules and regulations, why then the Johnnie Wards of this world say ‘Where do I come in?’—same’s they did with prohibition in America. Always happens.”

  She broke off again, studying Macdonald with her shrewd blue eyes. “I’ve been in vaudeville since I was a little kid,” she went on, “and I tell you you learn a bit about human nature. I’ve seen Johnnie Wards by the hundred—except that our Johnnie had got more of a way with him than any of them. He was educated, too. What I call a college boy.” She chuckled a little. “If he hadn’t a bean to pay for a meal, he’d just gate-crash into somebody’s party. Always got away with it, too. There wasn’t a woman in the world could be angry with Johnnie when he got wheedling.” Her head cocked on one side, she concluded “I’ve sure said a mouthful, as the dough-boys say—and not a fact nowhere—because I don’t know any. Take it or leave it. That was our Johnnie—scrounging his way along. Never quite in trouble but always asking for it, though he said he’d die any day to save himself trouble.”

  “You’ve given me as good a picture of him as I could want,” said Macdonald, “but can’t you help me a bit further? He must have had some relations somewhere.”

  “If he did, I never saw them or heard about them,” she said. “He said he was alone in the world. Oh, he told me lots of stories, but one always contradicted the other. His father was an Irish Peer one day, and a Viceroy of India the next: he was born in New York and in Dublin and in Park Lane. Oh, he made me laugh, he did. He knew I never believed him. I think one thing was true—he was lame, you know—and he said he got wounded when he was a boy of twenty in the Black and Tan rows in Ireland. 1919 wasn’t it ? He was lame all right, and had a bit of shrapnel or something in his lung. He went for his medical when he registered—he wanted to join up. Loved a scrap—but they wouldn’t look at him.”

  She yawned, a good wide honest yawn, and then said: “Sorry—but I’ve been on the go since I queued up for the fish this morning—and never got a sprat for me trouble. Now just tell me this—what happened to Johnnie? Traffic accident was it?”

  “No. Someone knocked him over the head. Do you know what he was doing to-day, or who was he doing it with?”

  “No. Not the foggiest. He never told me what he was going to do—thank goodness. I might have had to tell him not to, and what was the use ? Might as well’ve saved me breath.” Yawning again, she added “And you might as well save yours if you’re thinking of asking me if I can guess who knocked him on the head. I can’t. I just don’t know.”

  Macdonald got to his feet. “All right, Miss Willing,” he replied. “I’m ashamed to keep you up answering questions because you’re tired and it’s very late. Just answer two more questions. Where is Claude d’Alvarley now?”

  “Search me! In the Forces out east somewhere—India or Burma, that’s all I know.”

  “Will you tell me the names of the other tenants in this house and the number of their flats.”

  “That’s easy. First floor, Mr. and Mrs. Rameses, conjurors and illusionists—they’ve a contract with Flodeum Ltd. at the Surrey Met. Second floor, Mr. Carringford, scenario writer or something like that, and Odette Grey—separate flats they’ve got of course. She’s in the chorus at the Frivolity. Third floor, Mirette Duncan. She’s
on tour with Ensa in Egypt. Fourth floor, Johnny Ward and me, and old Ma Maloney in the corner attic. That’s the lot.” She yawned again and Macdonald said:

  “Right. Thanks so much for answering all my questions. Good-night. I’ll find my own way out.”

  “Rightey oh. I’m tired and that’s flat,” she replied. Macdonald was tired, too, but he stuck to his job. While the facts were fresh in his mind, he made a summary of the timetable of the case so far—a precaution which had stood him in good stead on other occasions. The murder had occurred at 8.30. The body had been taken to the Mortuary in an ambulance at 8.55. As soon as the body had been examined and the Identity Card found a sergeant had been sent to 5A Belfort Grove, arriving there at 9.30. The sergeant could get no reply to bell or knocker at 5A, but inquiry next door had directed him to the public house where Mrs. Maloney was known to spend her evenings. The sergeant had returned to the station at 10 o’clock, just after Claydon had finished his statement. Macdonald left for the Mortuary at 10.5 and reached Regents Park at 10.15. He was at Belfort Grove from shortly after 11.0 and left there just before midnight.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  i

  JOHN WARD’S Identity Card—a much worn document—showed two addresses, the first one being in South London, in a street which Macdonald remembered vaguely as being somewhere near Camberwell Green. Before he went to bed Macdonald decided that first thing next morning he would go to Dulverton Place—the first address on the Identity Card—and see if he could get any information about John Ward in that quarter.

  When Macdonald had left Miss Rosie Willing he had gone into John Ward’s room and examined his effects. He had gained no information from his careful scrutiny. The room held but the minimum of furniture: there was a divan bed, with a long drawer beneath it, a small table, an easy chair and an old bedroom chair and a dressing chest. In one corner of the room was a built-in cupboard. A door gave access to a tiny slip of a room under the sloping roof; here was a very small bath and wash basin, with an electric hot plate and miniature oven on a shelf at one end. There were a couple of tumblers, some cups, two plates and a few knives, forks and spoons. On the bedroom walls hung a number of photographs, mostly unframed and pinned up in haphazard fashion. These photographs were inscribed “to good old Claude,” “to Claude d’Alvarley from Pip,” “——Ever, Leonie,” and so forth. They were obviously theatrical photographs belonging to the original tenant of the room. A very small hanging bookcase contained a few obscure thrillers and some “Wild West” novelettes, paper covered and dilapidated. For the rest, the contents of drawers and cupboard contained one dress suit—old, but of good cut and material, four shirts, two pairs of pyjamas and a very small stock of underwear, collars, ties, socks, and handkerchiefs. There was a worn pair of pumps and a pair of walking shoes whose soles and heels needed repair. Macdonald registered a guess that the dress suit had been bought second-hand and the shirts likewise—they varied in material and size. From the contents of the room one or two things could be assumed: their owner had very little money, and he had used the room to sleep in, but for no other purpose. His meals must have been eaten elsewhere; his friends—if he entertained any—entertained elsewhere. The room, from a detective’s point of view, was like a negative—but it was a negative from which the imagination could develop a positive.

  When Macdonald reached Dulverton Place the next morning, he was quite prepared for what he found: it seemed a logical continuity with the negative room. The short street still existed as a thoroughfare, but it ran through a level open space where small hummocks of rubble alone had been left by the demolition of bombed premises. There were acres of such open spaces between the Elephant and Castle and Camberwell Green. After one prolonged stare Macdonald made his way back to the main road and stopped the first Civil Defence worker he met. The C.I.D. man stated his identity and then, pointing to Dulverton place he inquired “When did that happen?”

  “Last February,” was the answer. “Funny thing—that street survived all through the’40-’41 blitz—never touched. Then on the night of February 10th a load of incendiaries came down on it. We got everybody out and put them in the big surface shelter at the end there—and then a big H.E. hit the shelter. Shocking business. Sheer bad luck.”

  Macdonald nodded. “All that,” he said. “Some of them survive?”

  “Oh yes. A surprising number. My God! I shan’t forget going in with the Rescue Squad . . . Some things you can’t forget.”

  “I know,” said Macdonald, and for a few seconds they both stood in silence. Then the C.I.D. man said:

  “Well, I’ve got to trace one of the inhabitants in that terrace. D’you live around here?”

  “I’m at No. 10 post there, but I don’t know this district well. I lived in Westminster—Horseferry Place: the big block that copped it in May’41. Since then I haven’t what you’d call a home. All went west—my missis, too.”

  “Rough luck,” said Macdonald and the other shrugged his shoulders.

  “I’m not the only one, and I shan’t be the last,” he said. “Look here—if you want to talk about Dulverton Place, stop that postman over there. He knows all these streets round here.”

  “Thanks, I will,” said Macdonald, and the Civil Defence man moved on, a dogged sturdy figure in his blue uniform, “All went west. . . .” Macdonald knew that phrase. Many Londoners did.

  The Postman turned out to be a helpful person: he was a tough stringy little fellow of sixty or thereabouts and he had been sorting and delivering letters in the same district ever since 1918. Macdonald’s first inquiry was “What sort of houses were those in Dulverton Place?”

  “Two storey dwelling houses like many of those hereabouts,” replied the postman. “Small garden front and back. Let out in rooms many of them. Any special house in mind, sir?”

  “Number 15.”

  “15? ar . . . lodging house that was. Belonged to an Irish body named Casey. She was killed that night. She was a decent woman, always ready for a joke and a bit of back-chat and did her best to keep the house decent-like. She let rooms to single gents—always coming and going.”

  “You wouldn’t remember any of their names?” inquired Macdonald.

  The other shook his head. “Can’t say I do—but there’s a chap named Mason who lived at the far corner, newsagent he was, delivered papers and always out to spot the winner. Did a bit of book-making between you and me. He was badly hurt that night—lost both feet. He’s living along there on Camberwell Green—Albert House, number 95. He could tell you more about the folks in Dulverton Place than anyone else. They’ve all scattered, them as survived. You know what it is.”

  Macdonald nodded. He knew. Again with the brief word of thanks which had an unusual note of sincerity in it Macdonald went on to Camberwell Green.

  Alf Mason was a fat cheery fellow, despite his crippled condition. Reposing his enormous weight in a wheeled chair, Alf winked at Macdonald and extended a vast flabby pink hand.

  “Glad to see you, sir. Always glad of a bit o’ company. Lives like a lord, I do: fair treat to sit in a chair and watch others do the work. D’you know, a few years ago I was as lean as you are yourself, sir, worked to skin and grief. See me now—never believe it, would yer?”

  Alf was full of reminiscences, and Macdonald slowly and good-naturedly led him to the matter in hand, namely, the inhabitants of Dulverton Place. Inevitably the story of the bombing had to come first, the tragic record of fire and destruction, horror and misery—a story no less tragic because it had been so often experienced in south London. Gently but persistently Macdonald led Alf Mason back to the days when Dulverton Place still stood, its shabby little brick houses a dingy grey under the London sun.

  “Number 15,” repeated Macdonald, “Mrs. Casey’s house, wasn’t it?”

  “That’s right—and a fine woman she was—bigger’n I am now,” said Alf. “Dearie me, many’s the laugh I’ve had with Ma. All called’er Ma down our street. Let lodgings, she did, and often
as not they diddled’er and never paid a bean.‘Single gentlemen’ she called’em. Well, depends on what you call a gent.”

  “Gentle is as gentle does,” said Macdonald. “Now I wonder if you remember any of the lodgers by name ? I believe there was a man named John Ward used to live there.”

  “Mr. Ward? Quite right, so there was. He’d been at Ma’s for a long time—a couple o’ years it’d’ve been. I often wondered about Mr. Ward. Never saw’im again after that night.’Is name wasn’t down among those killed, I do know that, but’e never came round to see me, same as many of the others.”

  “Can you tell me anything about him? How old would he have been, and what was he like?”

  “Well, I reckon he was getting on for sixty—same’s me. He was a little bit of a chap, bald, with ginger hair what there was of it and a fine big moustache. Put me in mind of a butcher I knew once, down Dulwich way.”

  “ Do you know what his job was ?”

  “Nothing very much. Something down by the river side—fish porter or that.’E wasn’t in no union, I do know that. ‘I’m what they call casual labour’’e used to say, but’e made what’e could while’e could, if you follow.”

  Macdonald nodded. This description of Mr. John Ward of Dulverton Place did not surprise him in the least. He had been expecting something of the kind.

  “Do you remember any of the other lodgers at Mrs. Casey’s?” he inquired. “Were there any who you’d have called superior—educated men, so to speak?”

  “Bless you, there was all sorts. Some of’em might’ve been toffs once, come down in the world. Ma often said to me that it was always the’igh and mighty ones went off without paying their rent— Life’s like that. ‘Gimme an honest working man, ma,’ I told’er. ‘These down-at-’eels used-to-be’s—they’re no one’s money.”

  “Do you remember any Irishmen staying there?” asked Macdonald.

  Mr. Mason would have been only too glad to talk to his visitor for hours, but Macdonald soon found that there was no further useful information to be obtained from him. Mr. Mason’s reminiscences of Irishmen in Mrs. Casey’s lodging house had no bearing on the inscrutable unknown in the Mortuary, who, for reasons of his own, had carried the Identity Card of John Ward of Dulverton Place, a one-time casual labourer of Thames side.