“That is perfectly true,” said Macdonald. “From every point of view it is desirable that Mr. Ross Lane should try to find some corroboration of the facts concerning his walk to Regents Park on Thursday evening.” He turned to the surgeon. “You can realise for yourself the importance of substantiating one point—that at the moment when the constable blew his whistle on the bridge you had just arrived at the corner of York Gate and the Outer Circle, having walked there from Chiltern Court.”
“Yes. I see that all right,” said Ross Lane. “I can only give you the same answer which I gave before—after I left Chiltern Court I met no one and I saw no one until I came to the bridge. The cyclist doesn’t count, because although I was aware that he passed me I didn’t actually see him.” Ross Lane’s shrewd humorous eyes met Macdonald’s steadily, and the surgeon went on: “The last patient I saw to-day was a man who has only a short time to live. His doctor came with him and at the close of my examination that doctor said: ‘You can feel perfectly safe with Mr. Ross Lane—trust him altogether.’ I don’t know if you see the appositeness of that, Chief Inspector, but I’m prepared to trust you, altogether. You’re a sane fellow and a man of experience. I have told you the truth—and I leave it at that.”
“And all that we have said sheds no light at all on the question the Chief Inspector is dealing with—who killed Timothy O’Farrel?” Mrs. Ross Lane looked at Macdonald meditalively: “If I knew the answer I should have to tell you, but, frankly, I’m glad I don’t know it.”
Macdonald turned and faced her. “I can see your point, but I take it that you agree with me on this point—murder and assassination can never be justified: the society which allows them to go unpunished is likely to suffer for its omission.”
“Yes. I grant you that.”
“Can you tell me anything at all about any of O’Farrel’s acquaintances?”
“Nothing at all. His friends came and went—no one trusted him for long and without trust there is no friendship. As for acquaintances, he picked them up easily. I’ve told you—everyone liked him at first, but his acquaintances did not mature because he asked everything and gave nothing.”
“Finally, what may seem to you an odd question,” said Macdonald. “Did you ever see a film called ‘The Night’s Work’?”
“No. I hardly ever go to pictures. I loathe them.”
Ross Lane put in: “I saw ‘The Night’s Work.’ Why do you ask?”
“Because O’Farrel played in the station scene—not a speaking part, he was just in the crowd, but Bruce Mallaig remembered O’Farrel’s face from seeing the picture.”
“Then Bruce Mallaig has a better memory than I have,” replied Ross Lane.
Shortly after this Macdonald took his leave. Mrs. Ross Lane stood by the fire and lighted another cigarette.
“Before I married Tim one of my friends said to me ‘If you do marry him, you’ll never leave off regretting it: O’Farrel is one of those permanent nuisances!’ It looks as though she were right. Tim’s dead this time . . . but he still has nuisance value.”
Her husband nodded. “Quite true—but not permanent nuisance value. Cheer up, Joe. I did not bat Timothy O’Farrel over the head.”
“I know you didn’t—but will a jury believe that?”
“It won’t come to a jury—not so far as I’m concerned.”
Josephine Ross Lane’s face lost its equable expression for a moment: “My dear, exactly what do you mean?”
Her husband chuckled. “Not that, Joe. I mean I’d put my last penny on that detective: he’s the type who’ll worry away at a problem until he gets at the truth. I’ve nothing to fear from him.”
Mrs. Ross Lane pondered and replied at length: “That detective is a remarkably nice person and we’re uncommonly lucky to have a man of that type in charge—but if ever I felt afraid of anybody it is of Macdonald. It’s his quietness—and you can’t tell what he’s thinking.”
“Maybe, but there’s no woolliness in his mental make-up, he’s clear and to the point. What about some coffee, Joe? I feel it’d help.”
“Yes: coffee: clear, black and hot . . . oh dear . . . damn Timothy O’Farrel.”
“Amen,” agreed a distinguished surgeon.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
i
MACDONALD’S work for the day was not done. When he left the Ross Lanes he returned to Scotland Yard to see Detective Reeves and Inspector Jenkins and to hear their latest reports.
It was Reeves who had been given the job of trying to trace O’Farrel’s movements at St. Pancras Station and he had been very successful in his quest. Armed with O’Farrel’s photograph he had tackled the unpromising job of questioning the station staff about a man who might have travelled on a stopping train to Elstree two days ago. The fact that O’Farrel was remembered was due to his talkativeness. The driver of a horse van who picked up goods at St. Pancras regularly every morning remembered the dead man’s face because O’Farrel had come and chatted to him about his horse, patting the beast and showing a lively affection for horses which nearly made him miss his train. He had jumped into the rearmost compartment just as the guard blew his whistle, and consequently the guard also remembered him, O’Farrel having leaned out of the window and chatted to him at the many stops between St. Pancras and Elstree on the 10.50 train. From the guard Reeves learned that O’Farrel had been alone in his compartment until Crickle-wood when a couple of railwaymen joined him and travelled with him to Elstree. At Elstree Reeves went to the studios and produced his photograph. Here he was told that O’Farrel had gone to the office to enter for a crowd part, saying that an agent had sent him. Apparently he had mistaken the date—the job had been for the previous day and he had to return to town having wasted his railway fare. The clerks in the office to whom Reeves talked did not know the name Timothy O’Farrel though they recognised the dead man’s photograph—neither did they know him by the name John Ward. He was simply one of the unknown supers who turn up for crowd parts. ‘That Irish bloke ‘was the description given of him by a weary office manager, who asked Reeves how the blazes he was to remember the names of every guy who blew in to cadge a job?
“Try the agents. They’ll have some sort of name to label him by—a dozen names more likely,” said the manager. “Daphne, who sent that guy along on Thursday?—is he one of Flicket’s lot?”
“Search me!” replied Daphne. “I was busy—I just shoved him off. There wasn’t a show for him and I couldn’t be bothered with him.”
Another girl in the office, addressed as Jill, produced some further information about the Irishman.
“When he left here he went with John Merrilees—he’s had a small part in ‘The Girl I Left Behind Me.’ John Merrilees often goes to lunch at that place in Covent Garden—the Scarlet Petticoat. It’s a snack-bar. Perhaps your boyfriend went there with him.”
Reeves thanked his informants politely and asked them to report anything they could concerning the talkative Irishman, after which he returned to London, learning from a girl ticket-collector at the station that two film chaps had travelled together on the 12.50 London train on Thursday. The train had been late (even later than usual) and they had beguiled their wait by talking to ‘Doris,’ telling her she had just the sort of face for the flicks. In London Reeves had gone to the Scarlet Petticoat and had eventually run Merrilees to earth. The latter remembered Ward all right (‘Johnnie Ward’ was the name in use again on this occasion.) “Amusing chap—real Irishman and a dirty dog at that,” said Merrilees. “Tied himself on to me for lunch and then left me to pay the bill, blast him . . . Never saw such infernal cheek. Ate a good meal, lowered a couple of Lagers and asked for the bill—just before the bill appeared Ward jumped up, saying, ‘Excuse me a second . . . I want to catch that chap . . . you ought to meet him.’ ”
Merrilees saw Ward make for a crowd by the door—and that was the last he did see of him. A waiter had told Merrielees that Ward had played the same trick before.
“That was two-t
hirty,” said Reeves. “Deceased walked out of the Scarlet Petticoat with another chap—and the rest is silence. Maybe I’ll pick up his trail later. I’m going to eat at the Scarlet Petticoat for a week and try all the habituees.”
“Experience worketh hope,” said Macdonald. “You’ve done jolly well to trace him so far. Now what about Jenkins? Been on the trail since our private view, old sobersides?”
Jenkins, who had apparently been taking a nap, settled deep in an uncompromising government chair, nodded his head and came-to immediately, cheerful and alert.
“Yes, Chief. Been improving my education both ends so to speak. I went and had a chat with a gentleman named Hardwell—a connoisseur and epicure to use high-sounding terms. Nice chap. He dined at Canuto’s on Thursday in company with his friend Mr. Carringford. They met there at 7.15 and parted at 9.20. A long sitting, but they had some other friends to join them for coffee at 8.30. Carringford’s an interesting bird, I gather. Historian, bit of a journalist, and an expert on certain periods—costume, furniture and china. It’s that sort of knowledge which earns him a fee from the Movie magnates. Hardwell finds him useful in other ways. For instance if there’s some historic stuff for sale at Christie’s or Sotheby’s, Carringford works out the history and lineage of the owners of the stuff. That sort of thing enhances its value to the Yanks, I’m told.”
“It seems Mr. Carringford is more original than most historians then,” said Macdonald. “ As a rule a history degree implies a teaching career—but not cinemas and sale rooms. However, the point is he was at Canuto’s from 7.15 until 9.20 on Thursday evening. Better check up with the waiters of Canuto’s, Jenkins.”
The stout man chuckled: “I get you, Chief, I hadn’t forgotten. Now for the rest of my evening. I had a nice chat with a little pro. at the Mayfair Palais de Dance—it’s in Earl’s Court. Her name’s Elsaby Vere—professionally. Mabel Harris at home. She was ‘crackers’ on Johnnie Ward—always game to stand him a drink and a meal. She doesn’t know anything worth while about him—she’s a dancing partner and picked him up on the dance floor. The point which seems to emerge about Johnnie Ward is that all his acqaintances were recent ones. No one seems to have seen Johnnie Ward before January of this year. He just appeared, tagging round with his pal d’Alvarley. I’ve talked to several little girls—some of them shrewd, some of them foolish—but they’re alike in one thing, they first saw Ward some time this year. I can’t find anyone who knew what he was doing previous to this year.”
“It seems quite probable that he wasn’t in England prior to this year,” said Macdonald. “In 1938 he was in County Cork, and he suddenly ceased drawing an allowance from a solicitor empowered to pay him. The answer may be that he got himself into prison in Eire, or else got involved in some of the I.R.A. disturbances that are always brewing: in any case it must have been something which made it inadvisable for him to claim his allowance under his own name. It’s fair to assume that he contrived to get himself into England on someone else’s papers and that once in England he watched out for an opportunity to establish a new identity.”
“If we could only get in touch with Claude d’Alvarley he ought to be able to tell us something about the blighter,” said Reeves.
“ ‘Ought’ doesn’t equal ‘would’,” said Macdonald. “I should think the probability is that d’Alvarley lent his room to O’Farrel under compulsion, arguing from what we know of the latter. Gentle blackmail seems to have been his recipe for earning a living.”
Jenkins chuckled, the deep amused sound of a good-natured man enjoying a private joke.
“That’s about it, Chief,” said Jenkins. “I’m almost sorry that O’Farrel isn’t here to enjoy the joke. Here are three of us, respectable, reponsible, not to say high-minded servants of law and order, concentrating on finding some chap who took it into his own hands to do a bit of social scavenging by ridding the world of a blackmailer who lived on other people’s worries.”
“All right: laugh you old pillar of respectability,” said Macdonald. “I’ve said this before and I’ll say it again—just as soon as a society tolerates private vengeance, that society is allying itself to Nazism and opening an avenue for every abuse which exists.”
“I know, I know—and don’t think I disagree with you,” said Jenkins, “but let a man have his joke.”
Reeves sat regarding his superior officers with a thoughtful air, and Jenkins said, “A penny for your thoughts, young fella-me-lad.”
“Well, if you want an honest answer, I’d like as big a helping of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding as I could put down,” said Reeves, “but since I’m not likely to get anything nearer to it than what’s called sausages I’ll say this: murder’s murder and once a chap’s been murdered I’m out to get the other chap who did the murdering, and that’s all there is to it.”
“And quite right, too,” said Jenkins soberly.
ii
Macdonald sat writing his report after the other two had left his office, wondering as he wrote what the Assistant Commissioner would make of Ross Lane’s evidence when a message came through that a witness had called asking to see the officer responsible for the Regents Park case.
“Man of the name of Veroten—says he couldn’t call earlier in the day on account of his job. Looks like a fat man at the fair,” reported the officer on duty below.
“Send him up. I want a little light relief,” said Macdonald.
Mr. Veroten was duly sent up and entered the door just ahead of a constable. The latter was a stout massive fellow well on into his fifties but for once he looked slim. The witness called Veroten was fat to the verge of the ridiculous, a tall, preposterously cylindrical creature with rosy cheeks and yellow hair, and a smile which switched on an off with disconcerting swiftness.
“Sit down, Mr. Veroten. I have been working on this case for fourteen hours already to-day,” said Macdonald. “If you have anything of value to say, my time is at your service. If not, you may end by wishing you hadn’t come here. What about it?”
“I think I am justified in asking to see you, Inspector,” boomed the yellow-haired man. “I will put my evidence briefly. Yes, briefly. I am an artiste, employed by the Flodeum Company, songs and patter with a juggling act. My turn at the Surrey Met precedes that of a couple known as Rameses.”
“I see,” said Macdonald—who also saw some prospect of the ‘light relief’ he desired. “I have not seen your show, but I have had a private view of Mr. Rameses practising . . . prestidigitation, shall we say?”
“Practising my hat,” said Mr. Veroten. “The man has no more finesse than a rhino—but let that pass. It came to my ears that inquiries were being made about Mr. Rameses’ presence on the stage on Thursday evening. As you may guess, being, as I can see, a man of intelligence, such inquiries, though made in private, spread rapidly in a company such as ours. The whole company is discussing the matter.”
“I can well believe it,” said Macdonald. “Your manager has assured me that Mr. Rameses performed his act between eight and nine o’clock as usual on Thursday evening.”
“Meaning his act was performed,” said Mr. Veroten with a rapid wink. “Now I, sir, was in a position to see more than most on this occasion. I told you that my act came earlier in the programme than the Rameses’. Between my act and theirs is a dancing turn—a very pretty little turn done by a very pretty little girl.” Here Mr. Veroten winked again and his lightning smile flashed on. “I tell you this to explain my presence in the wings, Inspector. I stood there to watch this dancing turn. Just as it was over, I saw Rameses standing beside me. As you may have heard theirs is a costume turn—Egyptian costume, very elaborate indeed. When they are made up the pair resemble mummies or dead Pharaohs, with bronze-green faces and pretentious headdresses. I tell you, Inspector, I assure you, that no average person could have recognised those two when they are made up. Actually you can’t tell if they’re going or coming, because they wear masks on the back of their heads at times and get a laugh
by turning round and round so that the audience doesn’t know which is which or what is what. Now 1 ask you, how can anybody—any average person—swear to an identity in those conditions?”
“It must be very difficult,” said Macdonald solemnly: he was enjoying this conversation. “Assuming that you are not an average person, Mr. Veroten, could you swear to Mr. Rameses’ identity during his act?”
The fat man puffed out his cheeks, winked rapidly and held up an incredibly fat pink podgy hand as though for inspection.
“You listen to me, sir,” he said earnestly. “There are more ways of identifying a man than by his face. Yes, sir. I am an artiste and my hands are part of my stock in trade. Same with Rameses: I don’t call his stuff high-class: very poor some of it is, but he’s got skilful hands. Yes. I’ll admit that. He’s got skilful hands. He insures them—for he’d be in the soup without his hands.”
“He certainly would—up to the neck in it,” agreed Macdonald and the other winked again.
“You’re a man of great perception, Inspector. You’ll understand the point I’m going to make. I stood in the wings beside this Rameses. I noticed he was fidgeting—and that’s unusual because he can stand as still as a graven image. He does a deception stunt along those lines—sits as still as a statue, but this time he was fidgeting. Now I happened to glance at his hands. Ever seen Rameses’ hands, Inspector?”
“Yes, I have. He’s got remarkable hands with very supple fingers, and double-jointed thumbs.”
“Quite right,” beamed the other. “ It’s a pleasure to speak to you, Inspector. Now I wonder if you can go any further. Can you tell me any way in which you could identify those hands of Rameses?”
“I think I could identify them anywhere,” said Macdonald, and the other went on:
“Maybe you could, but I wonder if you noticed that Rameses had a wart on his right hand—on the back of it, just below the knuckles.”
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