Murder by Matchlight

by E. C. R. Lorac

  “You’re not,” said Macdonald promptly, “so please go on. I’m interested.”

  “Ah—you have one trait in common with me, you’re interested in what’s called human nature,” said Carringford. “You might be sufficiently interested to wonder why a man like myself—dull, respectable, academic and elderly—should have bothered to entertain a fellow like Johnnie Ward, an unstable, unreliable, whisky-swilling Irishman. You see, he interested me. To me, he became a living symbol of what we used to call the Irish Problem. He had the wit, the versatility, the charm and the good looks of the real Southern Irishman—and he had the illogical, rebellious, thriftless lying habits of that type. Correct me if I offend you.”

  Macdonald chuckled. “I’m a Highlander by extraction,” he said.

  “So I surmised. We shall understand one another,” rejoined Carringford. “Just as Ward was by nature a rebel, so also was he by nature an intriguer. He couldn’t go straight because he was by nature devious. I think he kept in touch with some of his old Irish boon companions. One evening when he was three parts drunk he boasted that he was on to some information which the Ministry of Information would pay a lot for. It might have been true—it might not—but if he made a habit of spying on his friends—well, a knock over the head in the blackout seems a not illogical termination to his career.”

  Macdonald nodded. “I quite agree with you—but my department exists to deal with terminations of that kind. Now can you tell me when you saw Ward last?”

  “Certainly. I saw him yesterday evening, shortly before 7 o’clock. He called to borrow some money—he was chronically short of change. I may say I did not oblige. He told me he was meeting a friend who was repaying a considerable debt. I congratulated him. Actually I felt a little ashamed of myself. On occasions Ward went hungry—and he had the look of a hungry man last night. I was going out to dine with a friend at Canuto’s, a friend who orders a good dinner in advance. While eating pheasant I admit I thought of John Ward with something like a pang of regret. I shall always be sorry I didn’t let him have that pound note—for the last time of asking.” There was a moment of silence, and then Carringford said: “I’m afraid I’ve talked a lot without giving you any real assistance. You want to know ‘Who were the man’s associates? Had he any enemies, anyone who bore him a bitter grudge? What were his origins, his kinsfolk, his past history?’ Frankly, I can’t tell you. I saw him infrequently. I never asked him questions, and I never encouraged him to talk about himself. It was a waste of time. He always lied. I knew that he lied. He knew that I knew he lied. On this basis of mutual understanding, Inspector, I studied the Irish Problem.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  i

  BRUCE MALLAIG worked in a laboratory equipped by the Ministry of Supply in a big modern building in Bloomsbury which had been intended for very different purposes from those to which it was now being put. There was a canteen in the building, but Mallaig often went elsewhere for his mid-day meal, to vary the monotony of the fare obtainable at the canteen. On the day after his exciting evening in Regents Park he made his way to the Grill Room at St. Pancras Station, experience having taught him that he could get a good meal there. The Grill Room was pretty full, but he saw an empty seat at a table for two where another man was sitting waiting for his lunch to be served. Mallaig, before sitting down, inquired:

  “Are you keeping this seat for anybody?”

  “Oh, no—it’s vacant—thanks for asking,” returned the other.

  Bruce stared. “Good Lord! How funny!” he exclaimed.

  “What is?—an empty seat?” demanded the other.

  “No. The long arm of coincidence,” replied Mallaig as he seated himself. “I heard your voice in Regents Park last night. You’re the doctor who rolled up when the Bobby was wondering what to do next. I suppose ‘funny’ may not be an appropriate word, but you must admit it’s odd.”

  “Damned odd,” replied the other. “I recognise your voice now, I hardly saw your face. The constable was holding on to you with tender care. They let you go, then?”

  “I should think they damn well did,” said Bruce indignantly, and the doctor replied:

  “Obviously I’m hoping you’ll tell me all about it. I don’t know what happened. I was taking my dog for a walk and I heard the chemozzle in the distance. By the time I arrived there was a corpse on the ground and two chaps in the arms of the law so to speak. I was asked to produce my Identity Card, and when the second constable arrived was given to understand that my immediate presence was no longer required.” The doctor surveyed Bruce with keen humorous eyes, half smiling behind his big horn-rimmed glasses. “Who batted who?—no offence meant,” he concluded.

  Bruce laughed and turned to the waiter. “Soup, roast beef and all that, and a Bass.” He turned again to the doctor, deciding he liked the look of him—a lean well-built fellow, round about fifty, with grizzled reddish hair and grey blue eyes.

  “Incidentally, my name’s Ross Lane,” said the doctor, producing a card. “I’ve got rooms in Wimpole Street, and I take my dog for a stroll round the Outer Circle most evenings—though I don’t generally meet any excitements en route.”

  Bruce rejoined with his own name and then said: “If you want the yarn, here it is,” and gave a neat prêcis of his previous evening’s experiences.

  “It’s a fantastic story—but fantastic stories do happen in London,” said Ross Lane. “Incidentally, now the excitement’s over, in the cool judgment of the morning after, do you suppose the chap under the bridge was the guilty party?”

  “No. I don’t,” said Mallaig. “At the time it happened I did: that’s why I grabbed him. Thinking it out later I’m certain he couldn’t have done it, because I should have heard him climb that bridge. He was a clumsy goof.”

  “Well, what was he doing under the bridge ? Innocent folks don’t generally hide under bridges.”

  “I know. I felt that, too, but after the police had finished asking me questions and had let me go, as you put it, I hung around deliberately because I wanted to talk to that bloke who was under the bridge. Of course I didn’t know if they’d detain him, but I thought they’d probably make him have a look at the chap in the Mortuary, as they did me. I was right over that—and they let him go afterwards. I waited around and had a talk with him—took him into a pub and we had quite a chat.”

  Ross Lane raised his fair eyebrows. “Very unwise of you, you know. The police are bound to suspect collusion.”

  “Well, let’em! Damn it all, I’ve got nothing to be afraid of. I’d never seen the bloke before—Claydon his name is, a seedy sort of customer. By the same argument the police might suspect you and me of collusion.”

  “Quite true—so what?”

  “Be damned to them,” said Mallaig. “I don’t know what you feel about it, but it’s the first time in my life I’ve ever tumbled across a mystery, and I damned well wasn’t just going to go home and pretend I wasn’t interested. Besides, I wanted to tell that chap I was sorry I’d man-handled him. I realised he couldn’t have done it, and I was a bit sorry for him.”

  “Sympathy’s an amiable attribute,” said the doctor, “but before I expended any on the seedy-looking Glaydon I should have wanted to know what he was doing under that bridge.”

  “Good Lord! Do you think I didn’t want to know, too? It was because I wanted so much to know that I hung around in a damned cold street outside an infernally cold Mortuary waiting on the off-chance of seeing the other chap. Actually the story he told me was the rummiest business—it was worth while waiting for.”

  “Was it, by jove. Well, I’m waiting, too—ears flapping, so to speak.”

  “This is the size of it,” said Mallaig, and related Claydon’s story in full, while Mr. Ross Lane listened intently. At the conclusion of Mallaig’s narrative, the doctor gave a prolonged whistle and looked around him with an expression of whimsical consternation.

  “D’you know, I don’t quite like it,” he said. “The whole thing has t
oo much of what the youngsters of to-day call ‘pattern-making’ in it. The story begins with a telephone conversation overheard in St. Pancras Station: it goes on with the murder of a man unknown to any of the other participants. The next instalment is a chance meeting between two of the witnesses, previously unknown to one another, also in the purlieus of St. Pancras Station. What’s the betting that the seedy Mr. Claydon isn’t strolling around in the booking hall somewhere, haunting telephone booths on the off-chance of hearing more? I don’t know if Scotland Yard wastes time on what the detective writers call ‘shadowing’ but if anything of that kind’s going on, the shadower must be getting his money’s worth. I feel another drink’s indicated. What’s yours?”

  “Oh—thanks. Gin and dry ginger appeals to me at the moment. Yes. I said ‘How funny ‘the minute I saw you.” Mallaig paused a moment and then said “It’s not really so improbable as it sounds. I work in Bloomsbury. I often come here to eat.”

  “So do I. I attend one day a week at the Collegiate Hospital and this place is conveniently placed. Also I often take the dog into Regents Park. Still—it’s a rum go, taking it all round. Now look here: assuming that Claydon did not bump deceased off, and that you were merely a contemplative onlooker, what do you make of the doings? Any great thoughts to proffer?”

  Mallaig pondered a moment and then said: “It occurs to me that the chap who did the Irishman in wasn’t the man Tim was expecting to meet.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, it was quite obvious from the way Tim behaved that he wasn’t anticipating any violence. Far from it. He was full of confidence. When he arrived on the bridge he asked ‘Anyone here?’ in quite a matey tone of voice, as though he was prepared to go on ‘Glad to see you, old chap.’ He then struck a match and lighted a cigarette, making a deliberate target of himself. If he’d thought there was any chance of rough stuff, he wouldn’t have done that.”

  “Yes. I think that’s quite sound reasoning,” agreed Ross Lane. “That being so one has to assume that Tim told somebody else of his projected rendezvous, and they took advantage of it to eliminate him hoping that a third party would be left to hold the baby. You’ve left out one point. Who was the party whom Tim expected to meet at the bridge? Are you certain there wasn’t anyone else in the offing?”

  “I can’t be sure, can I?” said Mallaig. “It was as black as pitch and you couldn’t see a thing. It was true I listened pretty hard—but that proves nothing, because I didn’t hear the third chap arrive. I should never have known he was there if I hadn’t seen his face in the matchlight.”

  “You can swear to it that you did see a face?”

  “Oh lord, yes. I saw the face all right. It was the face of a dark high-coloured merchant: he’d got rather bulging cheeks, a black moustache, bushy eyebrows, and he’d got a purplish chin as though he needed a shave. I saw him all right—although I didn’t hear him. Not a sound.”

  “Well, in a way it’s lucky for Claydon that you were a witness, although you were the means of his being copped. If you stick to it that you saw the face of the real aggressor—and it was quite unlike Claydon’s face—the latter’s safe enough. You’re his witness for the defence.”

  “Yes—but I’ve wished once or twice I’d got a witness for my own defence. I know quite well that when I told my story to the Inspector bloke at the station, he didn’t believe a word of it—and it did sound pretty thin. Why did I choose to sit down by Regents Park lake on one of the foulest November nights you could wish for? Did I often walk in the Park?—and all that. Have you ever been to listen to a case at the Law Courts or the Criminal Courts?”

  “And heard a skilful counsel cross-examining, making a witness contradict himself and tie himself up into knots? Yes. I have—and I tell you it’s made me sweat in sheer sympathy for the bloke who was being badgered. But I’d say this: if you haven’t any idea who the dead man was, and if your story is true throughout, you’ve no cause for apprehension. Our English police may be slow, and their manners a bit surly, but they’re not out to convict any man but the man who commits a crime.”

  Ross Lane paused for a moment, turning round to call the waiter, and Mallaig was silent as they settled their bills. Then he said:

  “What you say about the police is quite true—I’m sure of that. There’s one other point I’ve been pondering over: I’ve got a queer feeling that I’ve seen that chap Tim somewhere before. I never knew him—I’m sure of that, and I haven’t the foggiest idea who he is—was—but I still believe I’ve seen him somewhere. You had a look at him—did he remind you of anybody?”

  “No. No one at all. I’ve never set eyes on him before. When you say you think you’ve seen him before, can you place the occasion? Was he by any chance a fellow you knew at school, or college, or have you seen him in the dock or witness box when you went to hear a case at the law courts or police courts?”

  “I don’t know,” said Mallaig. “I can’t place him—but I still feel that his face is vaguely familiar. It’ll come back sometime: it may be just that he resembles somebody I’ve known or seen.”

  “I don’t suppose you want any advice, or that you’ll take it if I offer it,” said the doctor quietly, “but it does seem mere common sense to avoid giving the police food for suspicion by involving yourself unnecessarily in this case. Don’t try to see any more of Claydon for instance. The chap may be a rogue—he’s obviously a busy-body—and he might tell lies about you that you’d find it difficult to disprove.”

  “Yes, I see that—but I can’t help being interested. For instance when I saw you sitting here, if I’d been as cautious as all that, I suppose I should have gone and sat somewhere else—whereas I’ve enjoyed talking to you. I feel I’ve got my ideas straightened out a bit by talking them over.”

  “I’m jolly glad you didn’t go and sit somewhere else,” said Ross Lane. “I’ve been enormously interested in hearing you talk. As you can imagine, I wondered what the deuce had happened. Well—I expect the Inquest will be held to-morrow, and you’ll have to say your piece. You’ll make a good witness because you express yourself clearly.”

  “Will they call you?”

  “Yes, I expect so—to testify to the fact that the man was dead when I first examined him. It’s probable that proceedings will be very brief. In any case which promises a prolonged inquiry the police prefer the original sitting of the Coroner to be as brief and formal as possible. Well, I must be getting back to my job. Good-bye—and thanks for a very interesting lunch.”

  Mallaig sat on at the table for a few moments more feeling vaguely uncomfortable. He had liked Ross Lane: there was something about him which was both sensible and sympathetic; he had a very pleasant voice and the easy confident way which is a characteristic of all successful doctors. Mallaig’s feeling of discomfort was due to the doctor’s rather abrupt termination to their talk. He had not said “Are you going my way ?” or waited for Mallaig to get up and accompany him out of the grill room: neither had he said “I hope we’ll meet again”—a very usual termination to a chance meeting which had given pleasure to both parties. “Does he believe I did it?” Mallaig asked himself the question uncomfortably, and then poured himself out another cup of coffee and sat pondering deeply, oblivious of the fact that he ought to have been back at his job. A sudden idea struck him, and he sat worrying away at it in the same manner that he worried at his problems in the laboratory.

  ii

  When he returned home that evening, Mallaig had a call from a constable who left a document demanding his presence at the Coroner’s Inquest the next day. A few minutes after he had studied this unfamiliar document a telegram arrived from Pat saying that her leave was off as she had got ‘flu. Bruce began to feel unreasonably depressed. There was yet another ring at the front-door bell and his landlady, with a long-suffering expression on her face, opened the door of his room announcing “A gentleman to see you.” The visitor followed her into the room, and Bruce found himself face to face with a tall, da
rk fellow, lean, well-built, well-balanced: a man with dark hair brushed back hard from a good forehead, and a tanned nut-cracker type of face lighted by pleasant grey eyes.

  “I’m sorry to bother you at the end of your day’s work when you’re probably looking forward to a spot of peace and comfort,” said the visitor. “My name is Macdonald. I’m a C.I.D. Inspector——”

  “Good Lord! The Irishman again,” groaned Bruce, and the newcomer laughed.

  “That’s about it. Has he been haunting you?’’

  “That’s exactly what he has been doing,” rejoined Bruce. “As a subject for thought I’m about fed-up with him. Sit down, won’t you.”

  “Thanks. Perhaps a talk on the subject will de-haunt you. It often helps. I expect the fact is that this is your first experience of murder, and you don’t like it.”

  “Perfectly true,” said Bruce. “I keep on thinking about the beggar, even when I’m trying to balance equations. I suppose I was an ass: I got talking to that chap Claydon last night—I hung about outside the Mortuary waiting for him.”

  “Why did you do that? Just intelligent interest, or had you met him before?”

  “No. I think the fact was I was a bit ashamed of having let him in for a poor time—he was a seedy down-at-heels sort of blighter, and I was pretty certain he hadn’t anything to do with the actual murder: at least, that’s how I felt when I’d had time to think it over. When I copped him it was a sort of reflex action—stop thief. I hadn’t time to think, I just jumped at him. Then—oh, I just wanted to know what on earth he had been doing under that bridge. He told me about the telephone business—and the rest was natural enough, I suppose, when you realise how bored the chap was.”