Murder by Matchlight

by Lorac, E. C. R.

  “Yes,” said Ross Lane, as though answering a question, “I enjoy my own room . . . I don’t get a chance to spend too long in it.”

  “Something in that,” agreed Macdonald. “I wish you could have seen some of the rooms I’ve been in to-day.”

  Ross Lane laughed. “I bet they weren’t more fantastic than some of the rooms I have visited since I first qualified. I gather the chap whose body I saw in Regents Park wasn’t exactly opulent.”

  “Not exactly. All I can say about him is that he is negative so far. Nothing to get hold of. He knows nobody, and nobody knows him, so to speak. His neighbours merely met him en passant and his Identity Card was originally issued to somebody else. The point I want to discuss with you is this.” Here Macdonald gave a précis of Claydon’s evidence, and then waited.

  “I see your point,” said Ross Lane placidly. “Deceased telephoned to a doctor, according to the evidence, and a doctor turns up shortly after the murder was committed—was in the offing, so to speak. To save you further trouble, I can assure you that I was not the doctor who was called up from St. Pancras Station. Incidentally, what time was that call put through?”

  “Half-past ten yesterday morning.”

  “I’m afraid I wasn’t at home: I was operating yesterday morning—it’s my operating morning at the Collegiate Hospital. Incidentally—though it’s not my province, don’t you think the use of the title ‘Doctor ‘can be misleading? The term is often loosely used among certain types. I’ve heard the queerest birds addressed in that manner—palmists and astrologers, among others.”

  Macdonald nodded. “Yes. That’s perfectly true.”

  “Isn’t there any more data?” went on Ross Lane. “Couldn’t your witness give any name, since he listened so intently?”

  “The only names he heard mentioned were Joe and Tim. Tim, or Timothy, was the name of the man speaking, Joe was the name of the person spoken to.”

  “Not very helpful. My own front name is William. You’ll find a number of Joseph’s in the Medical Directory. Old Joseph Trotter has rooms a few doors along—but I doubt if you want to interrogate every Joe in practice.”

  “Quite true. I don’t,” replied Macdonald. “I’m hoping to get at the facts by less devious means. One of the lines I’m following is collecting information from everyone who was known to have been near York Gate last night. It seems that there were few pedestrians about. The point duty men can help a bit on that score. Would you tell me what time you set out for your walk, and if you can remember meeting anyone en route? “

  “I left here just about eight, with my dog. I turned along Wimpole Street towards the Park and then cut diagonally across the streets—first left, first right—into Marylebone High Street. I crossed the churchyard of the Parish Church at 8.15. I know that, because I remembered that I wanted to call in on John Mountford—a colleague of mine who lives in Chiltern Court. He isn’t generally in before 8.30 and I glanced at my watch to make sure of the time, but I went along there on the off chance. He was out, but I left a message with his servant and walked back to York Gate by the road running parallel with Marylebone Road—it connects Allsop Place with York Gate. Now up to that time I had met two or three people, all in the Marylebone Road: there were also groups of people by the bus stops. From the time I left Chiltern Court—8.25 that would have been—I met nobody. I turned up York Gate towards the Outer Circle and stopped to light my pipe while my dog fossicked around, and it was then I first heard someone shouting. I couldn’t place the noise at first—it seemed to come from over the lake somewhere. I stood still and listened and heard someone running—that must have been the constable, because he went across the open piece of ground to my right (where the barrage balloon used to be) and on up to the bridge. I started to cross the road and nearly collided with a cyclist—the chap was riding without lights and he went past me like smoke. I think he saw my pipe because he swerved when he was nearly on to me, and then I heard a police whistle and that made me get a move on. I ran for all I was worth—and the rest you know.”

  “About that cyclist,” said Macdonald. “Which way did he come?”

  “I can’t tell you. It was pitch dark and I didn’t see him: it sounds ridiculous, but I felt him: he was going so fast he made a wind as he passed me and I think I actually brushed his handlebars.”

  “Did you hear him coming?”

  “No. I didn’t. As a general rule before I step off the kerb in the blackout I look and listen: this time I didn’t, because my attention was taken up with the fussation across the lake.”

  “Can you remember if the cycle made any sound at all—did it rattle, like an old machine, or was it noticeably quiet?”

  “Again, I can’t tell you. When your attention’s fixed on a certain thing, you don’t notice other things—at least, I don’t. Thinking back, I should say the cycle made the average sound that such a machine does make when it’s ridden on a tarmac surface. I was quite sure it was a bike that passed me. It was being ridden southwards—in the direction of Marylebone Road that is.”

  “Could you tell which direction it came from? I take it that you were standing at the corner of York Gate and the Outer Circle?”

  “That’s right—I hadn’t crossed the road. I assumed the bike came along the Outer Circle from the direction of Albany Gate—but I’m not certain.”

  “Could it have come down from the Inner Circle and turned right just before it passed you ?”

  “Yes. I suppose so.”

  “You say it was being ridden fast: if it had come from the Inner Circle by the bridge over the lake it would have been coming downhill and the cyclist could have free-wheeled as he swung right in the direction of Clarence Gate.”

  “Quite possibly—as I said, I can’t give a definite statement. Actually the events of the ensuing minutes put the incident out of my head. I didn’t think of it again until you asked me if I’d met anybody on the course of my walk.”

  Ross Lane was studying Macdonald with a half-smile, “Do you want to know if I own a bike myself? I don’t—but I used to ride one a good deal.”

  “You’re quite sure that you didn’t meet anyone or anything—pedestrian, cyclist or car—between the time you left Chiltern Court and the time you stopped at the corner of York Gate?”

  “To the best of my recollection I met neither person nor vehicle.”

  There was silence between the two men for the course of a few seconds, and then Ross Lane said: “You said that deceased carried an Identity Card which was not his own: I don’t know if you’re willing to answer questions, but do you mean that the card he carried had a different name on from the name he was known by?”

  “No. His card had the name John Ward on it, and that was the name deceased was known by at the address where he had been living for the past six months—but the John Ward who had lived at the original address on the card and to whom the card was originally issued was certainly not the man who was killed last night. Deceased had contrived to change his name by acquiring another man’s Identity Card.”

  “One thing’s pretty certain—no honest man would do that,” said Ross Lane.

  Macdonald went on: “Does the name Timothy O’Farrel convey anything to you?”

  “Timothy O’Farrel? “echoed Ross Lane. “That’s a name in some play, isn’t it? Congreve’s or Wycherley’s—one of the Restoration dramatists. I’ve never met anyone of that name, either as a patient or an acquaintance—but the name has a familiar sound. Why do you ask ?”

  “I’m asking everybody I come across. An identity disc bearing the name Timothy O’Farrel was found in the bombed shelter where the original John Ward was known to have gone after his home had been hit by incendiaries.”

  Ross Lane leaned forward in his chair and gazed thoughtfully into the fire. “I think I see,” he replied. “You’re working on the probability that John Ward was killed and that Timothy O’Farrel stole his Identity Card—the connection being the use of the name ‘Timothy ‘dur
ing the ‘phone call.”

  “It can hardly be called a probability, but it is at least a possibility,” said Macdonald. “In a crime of this kind, the first thing necessary is to establish the background of the murdered person. Up till the present I have only succeeded in finding out that the dead man carried an Identity Card issued to somebody else: he was living in a room lent to him by another man—the latter being somewhere in Burma and therefore inaccessible—and none of his neighbours can give me any information of any value.”

  “And this nebulous person got his skull smashed in the blackout in the presence of two witnesses, neither of whom can tell you anything germane to the case,” said Ross Lane. “It certainly is a teaser. Your positive information seems to amount to three words—Joe, Tim, and doctor. Incidentally—giving my own opinion for what it’s worth—this crime doesn’t seem to me the sort of crime a medical man would indulge in. I rather think a doctor would have had resort to more subtle means.”

  “I’m not sure that this was such an un-subtle crime as might appear from a bald description of the facts,” said Macdonald. “We’ve got remarkably little to work on. A man was knocked on the head in the blackout: no house and neighbourhood to study, no finger-prints, no properties save an unidentifiable coal hammer—and finally, no real identity of deceased. It’s a set of circumstances which may form a very difficult problem.”

  He got up, and Ross Lane said “You omitted to mention the bicycle in you précis of the properties involved.”

  “The bicycle is only a theory so far,” replied Macdonald. “Could you swear to a bicycle you did not see, can not remember hearing—and did not actually feel?”

  “I can swear to my impression that a bicycle passed me at full speed,” said Ross Lane. “As to whether the jury will believe it, I can’t say.”

  “We shan’t trouble the jury with the bicycle yet awhile,” replied Macdonald. “Good-night, sir—and thank you for your patience in answering my questions.”

  “I’m afraid I haven’t helped you very far, Chief Inspector. You wanted to know if I met anybody near York Gate—and all I can supply is the unsubstantial and unconvincing bike.”

  “Unconvincing or not, that bike may lead to a conviction eventually—if I can find it,” replied Macdonald, and Ross Lane replied:

  “Well—good luck to your hunt, and good-night.”

  iii

  When Macdonald left Ross Lane’s house he turned southwards down Wimpole Street, cogitating deeply. Having had no dinner he turned into a pub behind Oxford Circus and ate some sandwiches with his glass of stout. Reflecting that wartime sandwiches were no food for a hungry man he continued on his way to Bloomsbury where he found the house he wanted to visit still standing—a reason for satisfaction in a neighbourhood which has many open spaces. He climbed a number of stairs and knocked on a fine solid door—for the house had been built in a period when joiners took pride in their work. The door was opened by a stout fellow whose massive head was becoming bald: this gentleman took off his horn-rimmed glasses and stared at his visitor.

  “Dr. Crotton?” inquired Macdonald, and the other replied:

  “By the lord, it’s Robert! Come in, man. I haven’t seen you for more years than I care to count. Robert Macdonald, by gad. Well, I’m pleased to see you—and that’s saying a lot when a man’s working. Come in and sit down.”

  Macdonald followed Crotton into a comfortable, untidy smoky room. Long years ago Crotton had had rooms in Pembroke College on the same staircase as Macdonald: that had been in 1918. The two had been contemporaries for a year at Oxford and Macdonald looked rather ruefully at the stout middle-aged man in front of him. Charles Crotton—recognisable, but only just.

  “Well, you haven’t changed much, Robert. I caught sight of you in the High once—1930 it’d have been . . . but I’d know you anywhere.”

  “And you’re wondering what the devil brings me here to-night, Charles. It’s quite simple. I’m out to cadge information, and you’re a learned man. I read a review of your last book in the Times Literary. The critic said you were the foremost living authority on the Restoration dramatists.”

  “God save us—you’ve never taken to literature, Robert? I thought you were a policeman.”

  “I am. That’s why I’m here. I’ve come for information. I’ve just been interrogating a distinguished surgeon. I had reason to ask him if he’d ever heard the name Timothy O’Farrel. He said he had, and he thought the name was that of a character in a Restoration drama—either Congreve’s or Wycherley’s.”

  “He lied.”

  “I thought he might have—or perhaps he was merely mistaken.”

  “Umps . . . as you like. Timothy O’Farrel . . . nothing like it in any work known to me.”

  “Thanks very much. That’s all I wanted to know. I won’t disturb you any longer.”

  “God almighty!—and you think you’re going to walk out on me like that, you unsociable blackguard. Damn all, Robert Macdonald, you can sit you down again in yon chair while I get some glasses and the last bottle of Scotch. You used to talk the night out with your hair-splitting pragmatical Paleyan system of corrupted philosophy. You can tell me what you’ve been doing these years. Didn’t I say I was pleased to see you?”

  Macdonald laughed and resumed his seat. “Thank you, Charles. I’m glad to see you, too. You were described to me once as the rudest Don in the University of London. It’s good to see you again.”

  “Nothing like a reputation for boorishness to gain a man a little peace,” said Crotton. “D’you mind James Menzies, a wee fellow with a big head . . . ?”

  And for the space of a brief hour or so Macdonald gave a truce to detection.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  i

  THE INQUEST held on John Ward was a more lengthy affair than was customary when the C.I.D. were handling a knotty problem. As a general rule, when it seemed probable that the inquiry would be a lengthy one, Macdonald and his colleagues often preferred the barest minimum of evidence to be put forward—identity of deceased, time of death, and in some cases cause of death, and then an immediate adjournment. On this occasion, however, Macdonald and the Assistant Commissioner, in consultation with the Coroner, decided to make nearly all the available evidence public because this seemed to be the most promising way of obtaining information which might lead to the fact of John Ward’s real identity. Consequently, Bruce Mallaig and Stanley Claydon told their full stories in the witness box before an oddly assorted little group of the general public and an equally heterogeneous jury. There were a few press men present—mostly elderly men—and Macdonald observed the manner in which these sat up and took notice when they realised that the Inquest was going to be a really interesting one. Mrs. Maloney, the housekeeper at Belfort Grove, identified John Ward as a tenant at that address. Miss Rosie Willing testified to a slight acqaintance with her neighbour across the landing and denied all knowledge of his business or origin. Mr. Ross Lane testified that life was already extinct when he examined deceased, and the Police Surgeon gave a technical description of deceased’s injuries. Finally, Macdonald entered the witness-box and gave evidence as to his investigation into the identity of John Ward of Dulverton Place. He also stated the facts concerning Timothy O’Farrel’s identity disc being found in the ruins of the shelter.

  After the Inquest was over, Macdonald went back to the Commissioner’s Office to discuss the case with Colonel Wragley, the Assistant Commissioner. The latter had read Macdonald’s report and found therein much food for thought.

  “You have plenty of material to work on, Macdonald,” said the grey-haired colonel. “There’s no lack of suspects: you’ve got the conjurer with a circus training—the very fellow to bring off a crime of this kind if your assumption about the bike is well founded: you’ve got the Civil Defence chap who had a bike on the spot, you’ve got the surgeon who put in such an opportune appearance, and the man Claydon who prevented Mallaig from starting off in pursuit.”

  “In fairn
ess one should surely include Mallaig himself, who gave the only direct visual evidence as to what happened,” said Macdonald. “Any one of these could be regarded as suspect once we found any shadow of a motive or a connection with deceased. That’s what is lacking. Until we learn more about the self-styled John Ward we’re not going to get very far. I’m hoping the daily papers will find room to insert John Ward’s photograph. The only trouble is that if Ward were mixed up with the Black Market racket no one will come forward to claim him as an acquaintance.”

  “How are you going to get round that, Macdonald? Wait and see if anything eventuates?”

  “Provided waiting doesn’t imply inactivity, yes,” replied Macdonald, “but there are a number of questions to be considered immediately. One of the first is—why did a man who lived in the Notting Hill district go to St. Pancras Station to put a telephone call through at 10.30 in the morning? The same question applies to Claydon, but he can provide an answer. He lives near Euston and his sister lived near Bedford. If he meant to go to stay with hie sister, it was reasonable enough to go to St. Pancras which is the station for Bedford trains.”

  “Are you assuming that John Ward also had relatives in Bedford?”

  Colonel Wragley’s question was in part facetious. He held with Kipling that the Scots are a great nation who cannot see other people’s jokes. Macdonald was aware of the Assistant Commissioner’s habit of thought on this subject, and he frequently infuriated Wragley by answering his rhetorical questions seriously.