Macdonald had been letting Mallaig talk on because it gave a good opportunity of studying him. Bruce was a thin fellow, pale faced and not very robust looking; he had a pleasant face, though he certainly wasn’t good looking. A low square forehead, short nose and obstinate chin, with blue eyes set well apart and a thatch of dark reddish-brown hair. Macdonald judged him to be impetuous and obstinate, naturally straightforward and honest—a young man of little finesse but of good character. Mallaig would have been surprised had he known how the other was summing him up. Rumpling up his hair (which was naturally intractable and stood on end if not firmly dealt with) Bruce went on: “When I went into the St. Pancras grill room for lunch to-day, I happened to sit at the same table as the doctor who turned up when the Bobby blew his whistle last night. That was just chance—one of these rum things that does happen occasionally. Of course we talked—chewed it over right through lunch. Wouldn’t have been human nature not to. Then at the end he got up and sort of said, ‘Thanks so much, that’s that,’ and beat it. I’ve felt ever since that he was convinced I’d done the dirty work—and it’s a beastly sort of feeling because it’s so difficult to disprove.”
Macdonald laughed. “I hope you feel better now you’ve got all that off your chest. Don’t think your reaction is an abnormal one. It’s hardly ever that an innocent person doesn’t feel uncomfortable when questioned by the police: the more innocent they are, the more likely to get agitated and imagine we’re suspecting them. If it’s any comfort to you, I can assure you that the D. Division men—the local police—know their stuff. They went over the ground by the bridge most conscientiously before I got on the job at all. They observed what shoes you were wearing—the same ones you’ve got on now, I take it. They found the traces of your shoes by the seat where you said you’d been sitting: they found one set of your footprints, made when you’d obviously been running, between the seat and the bridge. They found no return traces of those particular shoes. In short, the statement you made was corroborated by your own footprints as well as by the chap under the bridge.”
“I say, it’s jolly decent of you to tell me that,” said Bruce. “Stops that sinking feeling.”
“Good. Having got you on to an even keel as it were, perhaps you won’t mind answering a few more questions.”
“Anything you like—if I happen to know the answers,” said Mallaig, “but there’s one thing I’m simply bursting to tell you. The Inspector made me go to the Mortuary last night to see if I could identify the chap who was killed. I couldn’t, of course: I’d no idea who he was, but I thought I’d seen him somewhere before. His face was familiar in some vague way. I’ve been worrying all day about where I’d seen him before and I believe I’ve spotted it.”
“Good. Where was it?”
“In a film studio. I was taken to the Denham Studios once—they were doing a film which had a scene in a lab. and I was taken along by a chap in our lab. who was giving an opinion about the setting. We saw another film being shot, and I believe the Irishman, as I call him, was in one of the crowd scenes. The film was ‘The Night’s Work.’ I saw it when it was released in the West End. I’m almost certain the Irishman was in the railway station scene in that film. Did you go to see it?”
“No—but I expect I could get it run through for us. It might be useful if any other contacts in this case appeared on the same film. I hope your recollection turns out to be correct. Why do you call John Ward—deceased, that is—the Irishman ?”
“Because he looked like one—and sounded like one, even though I only heard him speak a couple of words. Was his name really John Ward?”
“I don’t know—probably not, but I haven’t been able to find out much about him. What I really want to ask you about was the third man in the case—the man whose face you saw by matchlight. Are you perfectly certain you saw a face and that you didn’t imagine it?”
“I’m perfectly certain.”
“Then will you describe to me, in the most detailed way, everything that you can remember from the time the Irishman threw his first cigarette away.”
“I’ll do my best. I was sitting at the end of the bench by the lake—the end farthest from the bridge, I mean, and I was sitting in such a way that I faced the bridge. I was watching and listening for all I was worth. I knew somebody was underneath the bridge, and what I was really expecting to happen was that a girl friend would turn up and join the Irishman, in which case I intended to warn them about the blighter under the bridge. It all made me very inquisitive, because it was such a rum set-out, with one chap on the bridge and the other immediately below it. Anyway I was listening and watching, too—although it was pitch dark and I couldn’t see anything except when somebody showed a light.”
“During the time the Irishman was on the bridge can you remember hearing anything at all? Did you notice anybody walking on the path on the other side of the lake, or along the Outer Circle, or up York Gate?”
“No. Again I’m perfectly certain of that, because I was expecting to hear somebody. It was obvious the chap on the bridge was waiting for someone, and I wondered which path they’d come by. There are a lot of ways of approaching that bridge, aren’t there? You could get to it by the way I did—walking along the north side of the lake by the college railings, or you could come up by the road bridge over the lake from York Gate and Marylebone Road, or you could come down from the Inner Circle. I put my money on someone coming from York Gate—because not many people are mugs enough to walk in the park on a night like last night.”
“Can you remember hearing the footsteps of the other two arrivals—Claydon and Ward?”
“Oh, yes, I heard them all right. They both came from the York Gate direction. No one passed along the path I’d come by, I’m certain of that, and no one came down from the Inner Circle. I remember thinking how uncannily quiet it was: I didn’t even hear any cars or taxis in the Outer Circle.”
“How long had you been sitting on that bench before Claydon arrived?”
“About five minutes I suppose, not more.”
“Were you smoking?”
“No, not while I was on the bench.”
“Right—then go on, telling me every single thing you can.”
“There’s so little to tell. The chap on the bridge threw away the fag-end of his first cigarette. A minute later I heard the rattle of matches in his box as he shook it—as though he were wondering how many matches he’d got left—and then he struck a light: it seemed a surprisingly big light for a match—but I’d been in the dark for a goodish while. I could see his face bent down over his cupped hands—and then Irealised there was someone just behind him——”
“Let’s go over this very carefully. How was the Irishman standing?”
“He was leaning on the handrail of the bridge, facing towards the lake: the other chap was facing me, more or less, but he was very close behind the Irishman. I didn’t have time to notice much, but I remembered wondering how the deuce the third chap had got there without my hearing him. It was like a peep show, all over in a flash. I didn’t actually see any blow struck: I heard a thud and a tumble. That was all. I certainly didn’t hear any one running away. It was just fantastic. If I hadn’t caught sight of the other face I should have believed Claydon was right in guessing that the Irishman had been hit by something dropping from a plane.”
“What do you remember about the height of the man whose face you saw, comparing his height with the Irishman’s?”
“The chap must have been very tall. His head was a lot above the Irishman’s. Thinking back he seemed grotesquely tall. You see I only saw his face. He must have had a dark coat fastened right up to his chin and something like a dark beret on his head: the only thing that caught the light was the face—fleshy and dark with rather bulging cheeks and very black eyebrows. It’s no use pretending I made that up,” declared Mallaig. “I didn’t. I shall never forget it. It was just a disembodied face seen for a split second against the blackness. You see, I thi
nk the Irishman had finished lighting his cigarette, and he waved the match as one does to put it out. It was a very still night and the flame burnt steadily.”
“Yes. It was a Swan Vesta—we found it afterwards.”
“Look here, how on earth do you account for the fact that the third man got on to the bridge without Claydon hearing him underneath?”
“Claydon’s a bit deaf. We got a report from his doctor. He can hear most things, but his hearing is not at all acute. Now you have described the third man to me as having a dark coat right up to his chin and perhaps a dark beret on his head. Does that put you in mind of anything ?”
“Yes, of course. Civil Defence uniform. That’d just about fit the bill—but I couldn’t see it. If I told you the man was in a Warden’s uniform I should be telling lies—but he might have been.”
“Well, I think you have done pretty well to remember as much as you have,” said Macdonald. “Now I’ve got two requests to make. The first is this: I want you to come along to Regents Park to witness a reconstruction of what you saw last night, so that you can tell me if I’ve got the idea right.”
“All right. I shall dream of this for the rest of my life—but I’ll do my best.”
“Good. Some time later—you can fix a convenient time yourself—I want you to have a look at John Ward’s neighbours—some men who live in the same house as he did, just to see if you recognise them. An identity parade, in short.”
“All right. Any evening will do.”
“Good. I’ll fix it up. Now if you’re game we’ll go straight along to Regents Park. I shall drop you at Clarence Gate and you can saunter to your seat by the lake, just as you did last night.”
“All right—but I do wish to goodness Pat hadn’t got’flu and I’d never gone into Regents Park last night,” said Mallaig.
“I’m sure you do—but there’s this to it. You can be grateful you didn’t interfere too soon,” said Macdonald. “There was a man on that bridge who knew how to hit, and who aimed extremely accurately.”
“Good Lord!” said Mallaig. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
CHAPTER SIX
i
MACDONALD drove Bruce Mallaig as far as Clarence Gate, and there he bade him cross the iron bridge as he had done the previous evening and saunter round to the bench where he had sat before. All that he was to do then was to watch and listen.“When proceedings are finished I’ll join you again,” said Macdonald. “Of you go—and don’t stumble into the lake en route.”
Macdonald himself drove on round the Outer Circle to York Gate, where he met three men of his own department to whom he had telephoned orders when he set out with Mallaig. They knew the parts allotted to them and went to their positions, while Macdonald went and waited a yard away from the bench Bruce had occupied last night.
It was a very dark night, misty, windless, moonless—a replica of the previous evening’s conditions. The chill dank air seemed to soak into a man’s bones, and Macdonald reflected that no one but a man with urgent business, or a man very much in love, would choose to linger by the lakeside under such conditions.
A few minutes after he had taken up his position Macdonald heard leisurely footsteps approaching along the path which led along the lakeside to Clarence Gate. A moment later Mallaig switched his torch on, throwing its small beam downwards towards the bench. He seated himself at one end of it, and switched the light off. Though he was not more than a yard from Macdonald the latter could see nothing of Mallaig at all. There was a few minutes silence, and then footsteps approached from the direction of York Gate, and someone with a slow shuffling gait walked on to the little bridge and turned a faint torchlight downwards: next came the sound of someone scrambling rather clumsily over the hand-rail and dropping with a thump on to the ground below the bridge. To Mallaig the whole proceeding had a nightmare quality: it was exactly as though he were re-living the experience of last night. Macdonald, close at hand, could hear Mallaig’s quickened breathing and the abrupt movement he made when the “bridge man “did his stuff. Again came a pause and then the sound of footsteps: Macdonald was listening intently and he counted the steps as soon as he was conscious of them—fifty steps he heard before a man halted on the bridge and enquired “Anyone about?” Then a match was struck: it was Detective Reeves who stood on the bridge and lighted a cigarette: his cupped hands shielded the flame, but his lean dark face, seen profile wise, seemed to be brilliantly lit by the spluttering match. He threw the match away, extinguishing it by waving it in the still air, and leant on the bridge hand-rail. As he inhaled his cigarette, the tiny glow of the cigarette end was enough to show up the contour of his face against the darkness. Macdonald was now listening intently. He knew what was happening—Detective Sergeant Little was guiding a bicycle cautiously on to the bridge. His hands were gripping the handlebars of a very specialised machine, one foot was on the pedal, the other ready to brake his machine cautiously by touching the ground. Macdonald knew all that—but he could hear nothing at all. The bicycle had been borrowed from a trick rider who often gave highly hilarious shows on the variety stage, and Macdonald contrasted its silent performance with the click and rattle of the bicycle he had borrowed the previous evening. Reeves threw his cigarette away and a few seconds later lighted another match. As he bent over the flame his face was brilliantly lighted, and then he lifted his head and waved the match in the air. Instantly, like some fantastic illusion, another face appeared, some twelve inches above Reeves’, and Mallaig suddenly shouted, as though his strung-up nerves impelled him to give voice. “There’s the third chap . . . look,” but even as he spoke the match went out and there was a dull thud and a heavy fall. Mallaig jumped up, dropped his torch, fumbled for it and at last turned it on. In the beam of light a man could be seen astride the bridge rail and another lay on the ground. Mallaig sprang forward, but Macdonald’s voice came out of the darkness:
“Steady on, laddie. It’s only a reconstruction you know.”
Mallaig halted with a rather uncertain laugh. “That was pretty grim, you know. It was exactly what happened last night—except the faces were different. The third chap—he was the same in a way—dark coat and cap—but his face wasn’t like the one I saw last night. What’s so amazing was the way you could see just in the light of one match.”
“Yes, No one would believe it unless they’d seen the performance,” agreed Macdonald. “Now while your memory is fresh tell me this: was the third man about the same height as the one you saw last night ?”
“Yes, just about the same: he looked ridiculously tall—about seven feet high. It was because one only saw his face without any body, I suppose.”
“Just a minute,” said Macdonald. “Put your torch out . . . Are you fellows all there, by the gate? Right.”
He switched his own torchlight on—a much more powerful beam than Mallaig’s, and the latter saw three men standing in a row before him. One was dressed in a dark overcoat and felt hat, one in a raincoat and a tweed cap, and one was in Civil Defence uniform.
“Can you remember which was which?” Macdonald inquired, and Mallaig replied at once:
“That chap in the trilby hat played the Irishman’s part, and the chap in the Civil Defence uniform was the third man. I didn’t see the other.”
“He was under the bridge. Did you hear anything, Brain? “
“Hardly a sound, sir. Little did his job well. I’d never have known.”
Little chuckled. “I only moved about an inch at a time. That’s a marvellous contraption, Chief.”
“What is?” put in Mallaig eagerly, but Macdonald replied:
“You’ll hear later. Thanks very much for coming to help us. Reeves will drive you home and not leave you to the mercy of infrequent buses.”
“Oh dash it all—I mean thanks for the lift—but I think you might let me in on what happened.”
“Think it out for yourself,” replied Macdonald, “and don’t go talking about it if you have any brain-waves. Sorry to b
e so abrupt, but I’ve got to get on with the job. Goodnight.”
And Mallaig, still mystified, was driven home by Detective Reeves, who entertained Bruce by a story of a chase which he had once enjoyed at a little shipping village called Mallaig, opposite the island of Skye.
ii
When Macdonald left Regents Park after his reconstruction scene he made his way to 217 Wimpole Street, to call on Mr. Ross Lane. Macdonald had learnt that Ross Lane was a well-known surgeon who specialised on throat, nose and ear cases. He had a flat at the top of the tall house which held many sets of consulting rooms. After climbing a great many stairs Macdonald was shown into a room after his own heart. It was a long low room with a good Adams’ fireplace: the walls were deep cream, the curtains, upholstery and carpet dull leaf brown. There were bookcases all round the walls, and some deep comfortable-looking arm chairs were drawn up to the glowing fire. Ross Lane had been sitting reading, and the only light in the room was that of a standard lamp beside his chair, shaded so as to throw a strong circle of light downwards but leaving the rest of the room pleasantly dim. The room had a peaceful look, and it was pre-eminently a room in which a tired man might enjoy his leisure. Macdonald knew well enough the pressure at which all doctors were working during the war and the apology with which he started the interview was a sincere one.
“I very much regret having to bother you this evening, sir. I realise you’ve been working hard all day——”
“Well, I’m not the only one, Inspector. Everyone is working rather harder than he or she wants to—and I don’t expect you’re any exception. Sit down: at least I can offer you a comfortable chair. Smoke if you care to.”
Macdonald pulled his pipe out of his pocket with a feeling that the man opposite to him—a tired man—would be easier to talk to if he were not hustled. Macdonald had had to interrogate a number of doctors and surgeons during his career, and he knew that a medical man of high standing was capable of terminating an interview exceedingly abruptly if his interlocutor made a false step. It wasn’t exactly professional dignity, it was something more inherent, derived from the fact that a consultant was called in to give an opinion, and having given it was not going to argue about it or justify it. A distinguished doctor could, in Macdonald’s opinion, be even more difficult than a barrister. The Chief Inspector allowed himself a glance round the pleasant shadowed room and then turned to the man who leant comfortably back in his big chair under the clear light.
Murder by Matchlight Page 7
